Song of the Silent
by Maegquareiel
Summary: Please R R! Very dark, angsty fic dealing with Elven ideals that are not usually approached and a character whose past shrouds any hope of future happiness.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Locations mentioned belong to the master, J.R.R. Tolkien. The character is mine. However, her name is derived from the Quenya language which also belongs to Tolkien.

Forgive me for the length of the chapters. I tend to favor short, emotionally-charged chapters over long, drawn-out ones. In my opinion, this just makes things easier to read.

Prologue

In the dark of evening, I wait. My hands held still, aching for the touch of a loved one, for the feel of soft green leaves. My lips quiver, parched with utter despair that comes with not having smiled in years. My throat burns with the pressure of trapped song, but no words will ever escape my lips again. As long as I retain the horror of my name, I can never speak. No word of mine will ever bring joy. No soft utterance will ever be whispered in the dark, for no ear will turn to catch it. I am death and pain. I am loss and misery. I am the weight of my past, the hurt of my future. I am nothing, no one. I am alone. I am lost.  


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Once again, I apologize for the length of this chapter. The others will be somewhat longer.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: the same as before.

This chapter is slightly longer than the first, but is still short. I intend for this story to be somewhat dark, but not suicidally so. 

Chapter 1  
  
  
The road ahead of me stretches infinitely and my eyes strain to see its end. The shadows cast by the thick umbrage obscure my path even more, but still my footfalls are undeterred. The wind is silent as a sigh and as cold as death, but I am already broken and do not feel its touch.  
  
I have no destination, no purpose, only an undying need to press on, to find absolution for sins I can not even name. My heart longs to pray to the Vala Varda for peace, to Ilúvatar for comfort, but I am unworthy of their sight. I must carry my burdens alone.  
  
There is no one, now, who can help me. With their passing, the sun left and all vestiges of joy fled this world. Fearing the change in Middle-Earth, they decided to join old friends and family in Valinor, to leave me behind. Not that I was ever of any importance to them. The only importance I bear is the distinction of the outcast, the misfit, the unwanted, the unworthy. I never belonged in their world. They knew that and made sure I knew as well.  
  
I know this must sound cruel, but I have always understood their purpose. I am unfit to be counted amongst the radiant ones, the Children of the Valar, the Eldar. I must remain solitary, alone in an empty world devoid of its once-plentiful light. I can never be with them because of my name.  
  
I am Seregiel. I am the Daughter of Blood.  


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Daughter of Blood is the literal translation of Seregiel. I looked this up and did not simply use a name-generator. In fact, any Elven character in this story will have a name that I contrived and that has an actual translation. I just want you to know this so that you know I'm not cheating you.

Please review, as a favor to me. I will accept flames, if they are necessary.


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: This stuff belongs to Tolkien, except for the parts I've written, which is all of it.

Longer, but still short. Once again, please review. Reviews are like oxygen.

Chapter 2  
  
A thin line of smoke was their only beacon as the search party combed the dense forest. The stench of burnt flesh added itself to the stink of smoke as the village came into view. A collective gasp rose from the group at the absolute destruction before them. No home had been left untouched by flame or ax. All livestock had been either butchered or left to burn. And the bodies........  
  
Corpses of children and adults alike were strewn upon the ground. Ghastly wounds gaped open to eager flies, and the stench of decay was overpowering.  
  
"A! Ulmo a Manwë," one of the party prayed in a hushed voice as the group moved forward to find survivors.  
  
Aside from this short prayer, there was only silence from the party, their footfalls quiet and their breathing subdued. A sense of despair pervaded thier hope as each body proved lifeless, and human. Though the first of the Eldar to travel to the Grey Havens had left years and years ago, the group for which they searched had left only recently, in the midst of very grave danger. Upon passing through this village, a band of marauders, servants of Sauron, had attacked. Had a message not gotten through to Rivendell, their deaths would ahve gone unnoticed. But a message had gotten through, but, it seemed, too late.  
  
A cry of discovery resounded in the tomblike quiet and soon the party had formed a circle around that which had been found.  
  
An Elleth, beautiful, through sickly pale and badly abused. Her discoverer stopped his inspection of the woman and addressed his comrades.  
  
"She lives, but she will not live long if we do not aid her."  
  
"I see no wounds," another said, confusion evident in his voice.  
  
In grave silence, the first, Angion, pulled back the cloak he had draped over the fallen elleth.  
  
The ghastly slashes across her abdomen had shredded the gossamer material of her dress which now hung off her body, wet with blood.  
  
"She will survive," Angion's companion, Brilfin, said, though obviously disturbed.  
  
"It is worse, much worse," Angion sighed, tears forming to pool in his eyes. "She was......violated."

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This rape will not be described, but it is important to the story. Please take note of the POV change from first to third person. That is also important.

Reviews?!


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Middle-Earth, Valinor, and the Eldar all belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. The story is mine.

This chapter is, once again, written in first-person. This will eventually make sense to those of you who have not yet figured out the literary technique I am employing. Once again, very short and to the point.

Chapter 3  
  
I used to find solace in the creative reaches of my mind. In my solitude, however painful it was, I could spend hours filling in the void forced upon me. Unspoken words found their volume inside of me, and what once seemed only empty space soon would fill with color and sound.  
  
I dreamt of air filled with laughter that I could easily inhale into my lungs. I felt as though the wind was no longer cold and biting, but warm and soothing, carrying the soft words of love I'd never before heard, easing the pain of loneliness that saturated my soul. The sun's warm touch became the embrace of a friend, the touch of a loved one, where before it was as stinging as a slap.  
  
When I discovered this gift of creation, however evanescent it may have been, I found peace, for a time. For one thousand years, the first one thousand years of my isolation, I was forced to find ways to be content. And it worked, again, only for a time.  
  
But, in the silence of millennia, my contrived content gave way to desolation. No amount of believed voice could replace the joy of song, the peaceful, musical language of my kin.  
  
But in this, I found my weakness. I could still make myself believe that the Eldar were my kin, that they would one day recognize me as one of their own. But one night, cool and dark like all others, the sound of the creaking metal of lanterns roused me from my almost-slumber and from the hope of dreaming.  
  
The beautiful procession stole my breath, but not because of its ethereality, though it was certainly that. I felt as though I'd just been hit savagely in the stomach and all my life's breath was leaving me. For this procession embodied the destruction of my greatest hopes and imaginings.  
  
The Eldar were leaving Middle-Earth for Valinor, for peace from the evil in the world. They were escaping the pain that I had no chance of losing for my entire life, a life that I would be forced to endure in the world of Men. For they were leaving me behind.  


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Miss Caribbean-Satine, thank you for the review. I hope I can keep you intrigued!


	5. Chapter 4

Sorry the update was so long in coming. I've been really really sick. And the subsequent make-up work from school is enough to kill me!!

Disclaimer: I don't own any of Tolkien's characters, locations, or language. The other characters are mine.

Chapter 4  
  
"Her body was used, against her will," Angion reiterated.  
  
"May the Grace of the Valar be with her," Brilfin whispered as he knelt down to cover her still form. "We must move quickly," he said as he stood, "She will need care, and soon."  
  
In silence, they lifted the beautiful, torn figure and placed her in the arms of an Elf on horseback, who immediately galloped off in the direction of Imladris.  
  
The Elleth in his arms whimpered against his chest, her fingers grasping at the smooth fabric of his cloak. With a terrible wrenching fear in his heart, the rider spurred his horse onward with a cry of "Noro lim!"  
  
When the smooth ringing of waterfalls reached his ears, he sighed and glanced down at the woman, who was breathing erratically, her forehead beaded with sweat. But, the danger was over and he leapt from the horse, the woman still in his arms. Summoning all remaining vestiges of his strength, he ran for the House of Healing, doors stood open, awaiting him.  
  
A pair of healers in pure, white robes ushered him in, gesturing to a low table on which he placed the injured woman. The healers looked at her in pity, but also hope, and then quickly escorted him from the room.  
  
Knowing his journey and mission were not yet complete, he took a deep breath and ran into the city, towards its center where lay the house of Elrond.  
  
Past curious glances and shouted questions, he ran, knowing the urgency of his task. The Elven lord had asked that as soon as anything was known about the attacked travelers, he would be informed. So, with a renewed burst of speed, the messenger sprinted up the palace steps and hurriedly explained himself to the waiting guard.  
  
The guard had been told of the attack and knew that the weary Elf brought important news. So, with little hesitation, he escorted the messenger into Lord Elrond's chambers.  
  
The tall, stoic Lord wasted no time for greetings or platitudes.  
  
"You have brought word of our lost kin?" he asked, his expression grim, but interested.  
  
"We found a village that had been attacked, and amongst the dead, we found only one survivor."  
  
"Where is the survivor?" he asked, his voice rising with urgency.  
  
"She is with the healers, my Lord. She was......raped."  
  
With a deep sigh, Elrond hung his head and made a gesture of supplication to the Valar.   
  
"We must go to her," he said, lifting his head to peer at the messenger. "Lead me there."  
  
******************  
  
"She is resting," said the waiting healer, her pale robes blown about by the wind.  
  
"She is well, then?" asked Elrond.  
  
She nodded. "In body, yes. But her mind........we will know that when she awakens. We have much to tell her."  
  
The second healer placed a restraining hand on his comrade's shoulder and turned to meet the inquisitive stares of the waiting pair.  
  
"Will you at least tell us who she is?" Lord Elrond asked, not allowing emotion to invade his voice.  
  
"Yes, she is Alquawen."  
  
Elrond turned to the now-calm messenger, and asked, "Do you recognize the name, my friend?"  
  
"In truth, Lord, I do not, though it sounds familiar."  
  
"That is because she was not born in Imladris, but in Lothlorien. She moved here with her parents several hundred years ago, to escape with us to Valinor."  
  
Realization dawned on the messenger's face. "Yes, I remember her now. She is uncommonly beautiful, is she not?"  
  
"Yes," Elrond muttered in reply, lost in thought.  
  
"My Lord?" one of the healers asked, searching for whatever troubled the Elven lord.  
  
He raised his head slowly and looked intently at the healer.  
  
"What is it you must tell her? What news could break her mind?" he asked, his voice raising slightly.  
  
The healers exchanged a long look, worry creasing their otherwise-smooth brows. But, it was the woman who spoke.  
  
"She is pregnant"

Notice the switch to third person in this chapter. I wouldn't point it out if it wasn't important


	6. Chapter 5

Another short one. Like them all.

Disclaimer: It's Tolkien's, except when it's mine. *hee hee*

Chapter 5

The heavy, wet splashes of rain rouse me from my rest that is not sleep, as I sit under a tree whose once-calm branches now thrash in the storm. I stand, unafraid of the wind, and throw my head back to catch the cool drops on the bare skin of my face and neck. I toss my arms toward the sky and bask in the tempest. It is in this pose that I dream of being closer to nature, a part of it.

Suddenly, though, it is no longer enough to want to be a part of the wrath of the sky. I want to become the wrath. I imagine each bolt of lightning and subsequent crash of thunder as my angry outbursts against my solitude. The rain becomes salt tears that pour from me, bemoaning my emptiness. The stormy grey of the clouds is the wrathful color of my eyes as I turn an angered stare on all my dominion. The winds are my heavy breaths, bowing the trees into submission and forcing the wanderer into hiding. Each part of the storm becomes a part of me, draining me of my hatred and loss.

But, as the wind subsides, I again stand alone, an empty traveler dreaming of peace. Dreams are all I have, now, and each one leaves me feeling emptier than the last.

I drop my arms, the thin fabric covering them completely soaked, and peer at the ground. What was once perfectly comfortable for sitting is now oozing mud. But, who am I to think I am better than such filth? With a heavy squish, I sit down, pushing my arms into the dirt until they are covered in the mud.

Instead of being disgusted, I am even more forlorn. This mud, this dirt which would disgust to many, is more tangible than any of my dreams. I imagine peace and happiness but such things are phantoms in the night, untouchable. My dreams of beauty are empty and totally unfulfillable while this filth is perfectly real.

I am less real than the mud, I realize as I lean back against the harsh bark of a tree. I am like a nightmare, totally forgotten, not more than a bad memory. 

Elven hosts may have passed this way, stepping through the mud without a care. But me, they would never touch. I am like a plague, an illness to be avoided at all costs. To touch me would be abhorrent.

Strands of long, black hair whip into my eyes, which I hurriedly swipe away, leaving trails of mud across my face. For some reason, this inspires an epiphany, a sudden realization. I am no plague. In the eyes of those who cast me out, I do not exist.

I give myself honor in pretending that I am something to be avoided. None of the Erusen even know of my existence, do not care to know. I could scream to the skies until my throat burned, but no one would answer.

Knowing that no one will sympathize, I allow the tears to pour down my cheeks and lay down into the mud. My tears mix into the filth and disappear, another symbol of my insignificance. I sob into the ground and wish to die.

Too much? Too dramatic? Tell me.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6   
  
  
The sky was overcast and the air angry as the screams of a woman in pain poured from the House of Healing. The gray dome of cloud cover seemed to press toward the ground, compressing the air into an angry wind which whipped against the houses, distorting the moans spilling from the windows.   
  
White robes blew about as healers ran for the house, their faces evidence of their extreme worry.   
  
In all the history of Imladris, no birthing Elleth had ever betrayed such pain or expelled so much strength in the trying. There was fear in every face as the cries stretched to each Elf's ears.   
  
Inside the House of Healing, the Elleth was at a brief rest, her hair disheveled, clothes wrinkles, and her body sheathed in sweat. In vain, she sought to catch her breath, her small frame shaking with the effort. But, all too soon, a tight, twisting pain tore through her abdomen, and she sat up, an anguished cry of hurt spilling from her lips. The pain was breathtaking as she leaned forward into her knees, the healers at her feet urging her to be strong.   
  
Strong for what?!she thought bitterly, Strong for a child, the memory of whose creation will only ever bring me pain?   
  
With no conscious thought of doing so, her mind drifted back to the day she'd awoken in the House of Healing.   
  
For a moment, she'd been confused, unsure of her surroundings. But, the white-robed healers beside her had moved away, allowing Lord Elrond a chance to approach.   
  
He'd knelt beside the bed, his face level with hers, and his usually stern countenance had been soft.   
  
"Alquawen," he'd whispered, "do you remember what happened to you?"   
  
In a flash, that horrible day's events had come back to her, forcing tears from her eyes. In tormented silence, she had nodded. Yes, she remembered.   
  
The day had been hot, even under the shade of the trees. Though the Elves had been comfortable, the horses were soon tired. Scouts had been sent out to find a source of water for the exhausted mounts. But, their return brought news of a town, not a river, where the horses could rest. Happy that they'd soon be freed of their burdens, the horses plodded steadily into the village where they shed their riders and were brought to open water troughs.   
  
The villagers were amazed at their ethereal guests, but were still hospitable and offered the Elves refreshment and comfort while the horses were watered. This, they had eagerly accepted, but had no sooner sat down at the table the villagers had set up, then a black-clad band of marauders had burst into the peaceful setting.   
  
Their faces were mostly concealed by masks, and what little could be seen had been covered with thick black pigment. Their breastplates bore the eye of Sauron.   
  
In terror, the villagers had scattered. But their headlong rush left them open to assault and soon, bodies littered the ground.   
  
The Elven warriors of the group defended the weaponless with great courage. But, finding themselves hugely outnumbered, they, too, fell under the barrage of arrows and blows, adding their blood to the already-soaked ground.   
  
Finding herself among the few still alive, Alquawen had run for her horse, who, though frightened, had remained nearby. She never made it that far.   
  
Rough hands landed on her shoulders, grabbing her and stopping her mid-stride. With the reflexes gained by training, she whipped around, an open palm ready to smash into the face of her assailant. But, a new attacker had rushed up from behind and grabbed her arm, effectively stopping her well-placed assault. Utilizing her last means of inflicting pain, she kicked outwards hoping to catch an unprotected shin or groin. Again, it was to no avail, as a pair of arms swept her feet out from under her.   
  
Pinned, she struggled mightily on the ground, twisting and biting. But their collective strength was too much and soon she was exhausted.   
  
As she lay there, panting, trapped by heavy hands, she realized that the marauders were eyeing her body hungrily. A new wave of terro blasted through her as hands grabbed at her legs. Soon after, there was only pain, so much searing awful pain. And then, there was nothing.   
  
Days later, when she'd opened her eyes to find Lord Elrond's stern face peering back at her, she'd remembered it all. She cried for hours, shame flooding through her at the memory of the unwanted, brutal use of her body. The Healers had taken all the pain of her body, but not of her soul. In a flash, she knew she could not live with the memory and decided to take her life.   
  
A voice interrupted her thoughts, the soft, melodic voice of the female Healer. She was saying something about being strong.   
  
"Why?" she whispered through tears, knowing that there was no reason to be strong now that she'd made the decision to die.   
  
"Alquawen," the Healer said, taking one of her hands in her own. "There is something I must tell you, and it will be difficult for you to hear."   
  
Alquawen said nothing in response, the tears still falling from her eyes. So, the Healer spoke on, "Alquawen, you are with child."   
  
Shocked beyond words, she'd stopped crying, unsure of how she felt at the news. Though she'd always hoped to have children, the idea of one spawned under such a vicious assault instilled both a great tenderness and a great loathing in her. Still, the sanctity of the right to life took away any possibility of suicide. No matter how loathed, the child must be given the chance at life. Once it was born, a decision would be made.   
  
So, as Alquawen rocked her body forward, pulling her knees to her chest, forcing pressure into her lower body and crying out, she made her decision.   



	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7   
  
My first sensation as my eyes open to a new day, is the feeling of a dry, stiffness on my skin. I raise a hand to it, curiosity dulling the pain of being alone. My fingernails scratch against my cheek, revealing a heavy crust of mud. In a flash, I remember falling asleep in the rain, my body squishing into the runny earth.   
  
Realizing how absolutely filthy I am, I slowly lift myself from the ground, smoothing my hands over my skirt once I have stood. I take a moment to look about me, gaining my bearings. I know this forest so well, it is as if the forest and I are one. But still, I can not decide exactly where I am and so head off in a random direction, in search of a river.   
  
For hours, I walk. This time, I have a purpose, though. My skin is hot under the layers of grime, my dress caked with dirt. A cool, refreshing bathh will soothe my tired flesh and perhaps distract me from my solitude.   
  
But, during this time of quiet, I allow my mind to wander to more pleasant things. The smell of the fresh, lush forest fills my nostrils and the gentle swishing of the leaves in a breeze lulls me into a state of tranquility. The earth under my feet is soft and slightly warm, gently coaxing the hidden seeds it hold, to new birth. The idea of such concealed beauty fills me with a sense of wonder and peace.   
  
In a state close to rapture, I raise my face to the sky, not smiling, but still contented. My pace quickens until I am running through the trees, silent but joyful. I leap over a fallen log and hit the ground at full speed, dodging branches and the small animals I startle with my passage. I run from the sense of abandonment, pursuing this rare moment of exultation.   
  
The sound of gentle waters stops my headlong flight, leaving me panting and gasping for breath. I bend forward, hands on my knees, and breathe deeply until I can move forward. I straighten and take a few steps toward the open clearing.   
  
This bare space in the heart of the forest is breathtakingly beautiful. The green-swathed trees seem to spread their branches like protecting arms, encircling the open spot of their forest. Specks of pollen and dust turn golden in the beams of sun, lighting on the clear water of the gently flowing river. Flowers, drinking in the life of the river, line its banks, their colorful faces nodding in the warmth of a breeze.   
  
Awestruck, I stand still, attempting to breathe the beauty into my body. How can I possibly feel unhappy in the midst of such perfection?   
  
Suddenly, I realize how starkly I contrast with the tranquil setting, covered in mud as I am. How can I possibly join this idyllic place in my current state? I feel so ridiculous, I almost laugh. But, of course, I don't.   
  
I walk closer to the banks of the river, stripping off my filthy gown and laying it at the water's edge. Now, clad in a thin shift, I walk into the water until I am immersed to my neck, then swiftly duck under its depths. The accumulated dirt washes from my skin and hair as I resurface and float on my back. I could lay here forever, I imagine. I could float away.   
  
Struggling with my mind, I force the thoughts of desperation that spill into my once-content mind, to quiet. My mind screams that I should just float away. No one would miss me and my suffering would finally end. Part of me battles my mind, the part that shouts its will to live. I don't know why I have hope for life. One thousand years has not proven worthwhile. Why should the future?   
  
I contemplate this, debating back and forth, until a sudden sound awakens my feuding mind. It is the distinct sound of twigs breaking underfoot. I am not alone.   



	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8   
  
  
There were few farewells and fewer tears as Alquawen boarded the small ship. Its curving, misty-grey deck was warn under the beating rays of the sun, and the sails snapped crisply in the wind, but she could find no joy in the happy setting. In the arms of a strong Elf, her head lolling on his shoulder, Alquawen prepared to leave Middle-Earth.   
  
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Only a scant few days before, the child had been born, in a greater rush of blood than usually ushers a baby into the world. Weakened, the child's mother collapsed, her body exhausted from the pain. The Healers had hurriedly stopped the flow of blood, and tried to hand the baby into Alquawen's arms. But, awakened to conciousness by the motion, Alquawen raised her arms in refusal of the tiny baby girl.   
  
The Healer had not pretended to be surprised as she pulled the baby back from her exhausted mother. In silence, she'd placed the baby on a soft mat, quickly, as if afraid to touch her. The door had opened then, admitting Lord Elrond, who'd looked upon the baby silently, his face a stern mask. His expression proved that he knew Alquawen's decision.   
  
"The child is corrupted of Sauron, my Lord," the Healer whispered, her voice trembling. "She will be a poison to our people."   
  
Elrond said nothing in response, only turned to face Alquawen.   
  
"I do not want her," Alquawen breathed, her eyes closed and her flesh deathly pale.   
  
To this, the stoic Lord nodded. "But you must name her," he said, gesturing toward the child.   
  
With venom dripping from each of the words, she said, "She is Seregiel."   
  
  
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Under the welcoming sun, Alquawen shivered. Dressed in a robe of deep purple, her face was left looking even more pallid. Guilt and regret painted her face and even her usually-lustrous black hair fell limply and dull, weighed down with grief.   
  
The strong arms carrying her relaxed and laid her down atop a soft cushion. Struggling, she pushed herself up on her elbows, straining to see those on the dock. In the waning sunlight, they were only vague shapes. But, the tiny blanketed bundle was unmistakable and her eyes filled with tears. Tears of shame over the child's creation, tears of sorrow and pain, tears of regret for leaving her home, and tears of guilt for the terrible namesake she'd placed on the child.   
  
But the wind would not wait, and her daughter grew smaller and smaller as the ship moved toward Valinor and Alquawen's future.   
  
*******************   
  
On the shore, Elrond took the baby from the Healer's arms and held her high in the air. Her eyes held no fear as she peered back at him, her stare full of intelligence.   
  
"Your fate his sealed, little one," he said, his voice soft, "You are outcast."   



	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9   
  
  
Careful not to disturb the water, I lower my legs so I am no longer floating on the placid surface. I sink down until submerged and swim toward the banks of the river. When my knees touch the smooth stones of the riverbed, I surface, careful to be quiet; though suddenly I realize that I have no reason to hide. Standing unabashedly, I turn a slow circle, scanning the clearing.   
  
It is close to unnaturally silent now, with no bird song and only the gentle lapping sounds of the water left to break the silence. The betraying signs of twigs snapping are gone, but I am still wary. I will not trust a moment of quiet to prove that I am alone.   
  
My paranoia is justified when a tall shadow moves in the darkness under the trees. Multiple shapes of contrasting blackness slip between the tall trunks, the soft sounds of movement betraying their location. My ears are trained to such noise and I instantly know that I am surrounded.   
  
I am suddenly afraid. Not of death, because at times I long for that. But, there are worse things than dying.   
  
I lived in Imladris for the first fifteen years of my life, until they were sure I could survive alone. True, I was isolated from the rest of the city, but I learned my own history. They told me why I was so loathed. They told me of my mother. I am an offspring of rape, born with the taint of Sauron. That is why I could not be a part of the society I longed for. No one wanted the stain of my heritage, the stench of my past.   
  
The tall shapes worry me. I do not want my mother's legacy. I know that my face is not ugly, for it is my mother's face, and that my body is toned by years of travel. In my current state of soaked undress, I am an easy target.   
  
The shadows are closer now, close enough to be recognizable as men in armor. I can hear the heavy clink of sword belts and chain mail. A low murmur suggest voices which do not attempt to be hushed. Perhaps they are merely intent upon a drink or a bath in this beautiful space. If that is the case, then I am probably not yet spotted. I could run and hide, but I do not.   
  
I have a sense that whatever, or whomever, these shapes prove to be, they will not harm me. I want them to discover me. I am eager to be recognized as alive. The thought is thrilling. No more a phantom, I am alive.   
  
I take a deep breath as the shadows step into the sunlight.   
  



	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10   
  
"Come on men, keep moving!" he shouted, his voice muffled by the thick foliage overhead.   
  
The grumbling of the bedraggled soldiers brought a smile to Éoden's face as they trekked through the woods. Weeks of surveying the land had made them frustrated and lonely for home. Not to mention filthy.   
  
"Sir?" Haled's voice was no longer crisp and formal as he approached Éoden.   
  
"Yes, Haled?"   
  
"Sir, I know you must have answered this question before, but why are we here? The men are weary of this wretched place, yet still we walk."   
  
All Éoden could do was sigh and shake his head merrily. "You know our orders, Haled. King Éomer ordered that all the lands be scoured, completely cleared of all that remains of Saruman's horde. So, we will walk until the deed is done."   
  
Seeing the obvious disappointment on the new soldier's face, Éoden clapped a hand on his back, the heavy clank of armor under his palm familiar and welcoming. "Do not be dismayed, my friend. Meduseld awaits our return. It will still be there, shining in the midst of Edoras, when this task is completed."   
  
Smiling, he gave Haled a gentle shove in the direction of his waiting comrades. "Give them a message of hope, Haled. There is always hope."   
  
His face brightening, Haled stumbled away from the jovial leader, carrying his message of hope to the weary Rohirrim.   
  
Free, again, to his thoughts, Éoden was content to enjoy their assignment. Ever positive, he ignored the heat of his skin under leather and mail. He ignored the sitnk of his men, the stench of unwashed bodies. He ignored the call of home and the loneliness of being away from the Golden Hall.   
  
The smooth scent of leaves washed over him, carried on a gentle, cooling breeze. The sun, no longer bothersome or heavy, became a soft kiss, a warm caress. The sounds of his men sank into the background as the beauty of the woods enveloped him like a blanket.   
  
Each part of the forest was picturesque, perfect beyond description. Rohan was a beautiful land, to be sure, but most of it was open plains. Here, under the swaying arms of the trees, Éoden felt held, protected.   
  
Still, he was a soldier above all else and was forced to examine every sight and sound with more than an appreciative glance. Though the heavy shadows hung from the branches like smooth curtains, lovely and soft, that serene darkness could easily mask an approaching Orc or Uruk-Hai. But, Orcs and Uruks were not known for their subtlety.   
  
Inwardly, he questioned the importance of this assignment. The world would be a better place without the odious beasts of Saruman, to be sure, but these slaves of the darkness rarely entered the forests. Fangorn had taught them a lesson.   
  
But, Éoden was loyal to a fault and carried out his beloved king's orders with no complaint. He had the best of men as his companions and an idyllic setting in which to abide. True, they'd not come upon an expanse of fresh water in days, but Éoden was used to such a life and was no simpering child, no primping woman. He could handle a little dirt.   
  
No matter how capable of handling filth he may have felt, the sounds of rushing water and the gentle light peeking through the trees filled him with a sense of relief.   
  
He held a hand up to stop his men and gain their attention.   
  
"There is a clearing ahead, men. If all proves well, we may get a chance to wash the stench from our skin."   
  
A chorus of pleased laughter answered his comment. He gestured to his friend, "Haled, come with me. We will make sure it is safe for all."   
  
Side by side, they walked forward, bows drawn, arrows notched securely, waiting for release. Éoden stepped through the branches first, quickly scanning the breathtaking place. The sight of a wide river pleased him immensely, but he was not prepared for the woman standing next to it.   
  
Startled to the point of disbelief, his grasp on the bow faltered so that it hung loose in his grip.   
  
"Sir?!" shouted Haled, obviously equally surprised at the sight of the young woman.   
  
The young soldier's voice brought him back to reality. Embarassed, he quickly gained his grip afresh and brought the arrow to bear so that it aimed at the woman's forehead. The gesture felt foolish. Nothing so beautiful could possibly be dangerous.   
  
Clad in a thin, white shift, she stared at him, completely unafraid. Her thick black hair hung in lustrous, damp waves down her back, framing a moon-white face. Her arms were bare, the same pearl-color as her face. For a moment, he wondered why she was so thinly-clad and yet was not embarassed. The shift was soaked and clung to her body, but she made no move to cover herself. A quick glance toward the ground revealed where her dress lay. He must have surprised her in the midst of washing. But, why was she washing in the middle of the forest?   
  
Lowering his bow, he stepped closer to her, slowly so as not to frighten her. Again, he felt foolish. Her fathomless, wid, grey eyes were completely fearless. She was no skittish colt, prepared to run at any moment.   
  
"I will not harm you," he said, lowering the bow to the ground.   
  
No sooner had the words left his mouth than she gasped, her full, wine-dark lips quivering as if she was on the verge of tears. Afraid that he had, at last, startled her, he searched her eyes for a sign of fright. But, her eyes were dancing with happiness, and the tears shimmering in them appeared to be tears of joy.   
  
"I am Éoden, of Rohan. This is Haled, a soldier, loyal to the king. He will not harm you, either." He spoke softly, still walking closer to her. But his words, though carefully spoken, only served to renew her tears.   
  
"Are you hurt, my lady?" he asked, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on her arm.   
  
Surprised, her eyes left his to stare at his hand on her arm. The tears stopped falling from her eyes and her breaths slowed. She stared from his hand, to him, and back to his hand again, amazed or scared, he was unsure of which.   
  
Her eyes danced back and forth once more and then abruptly rolled back in her head. He had time only to extend his arms to catch her as she fainted.   



	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11   
  
  
My head swims and my vision blurs as I wake and sit up. The soft fur under my hands confuses me as does the realization that my arms are not bare. They are covered in the faded reds and golds of a country I do not know. The same colors cover my legs. This clothing is huge on me; it belongs to a man.   
  
A man, yes, now I remember. The reliving of this moment almost makes me swoon. But, I do not dwell on it, for I am not alone in my reverie.   
  
The flaps of the tent open with a sound like wind in sails. And he steps inside.   
  
Attempting to be respectful, I shift so that I am sitting straight up, and wait for him to speak. But he is silent, pausing with his hand on the tentflap, crouched in the entrance.   
  
Perhaps he is surprised that I am awake.   
  
His face is a mask of indecision until he turns and I can no longer see his eyes. I am momentarily disappointed as the tentflap swishes closed, but he returns almost in the same instant, this time carrying a tray with bread and cheese and a carved goblet with some kind of liquid in it. He sets this down on a box at my feet and sits facing me, studying my face. I wish he would speak.   
  
Words. They are like a soothing balm and a shocking blast of icy water. His words wrung tears from my eyes before, and I want so much to feel this way again. I never before realized how starved I was for spoken thoughts, until I actually heard them. As to what he said, I can not remember. I was far too stunned to listen.   
  
In the hopes of prompting his speech, I lean forward, the heavy woolen blanket pooling around my waist, folding against my stomach. My hands rest, palm-down, on my knees and I fight the urge to drum my fingers impatiently. I am like a woman starved who has been given the tiniest morsel of food, a tantalizing taste.   
  
He opens his mouth to speak and I lean farther forward, shaking with expectation. But, he only sighs and drops his head, running his fingers through the wavy, blonde locks of his hair. His cheeks color, painted red, as if he is embarassed. But, when I lower my head, tilting my face upwards, I see that his eyes swim with shame.   
  
This frightens me. What has he to feel guilt for? I catch myself reaching forward to touch him reassuringly. I am not yet ready to take this step, this connection linking me to the tangible. I must be ready to revert into my phantom-self.   
  
Seeing me reach forward, his head lifts up, his eyes catching me just as I pull my hand back.   
  
"I am sorry if I frightened you earlier, my lady," he says, his voice gentle.   
  
Here is the answer; he is ashamed of my tears and fainting spell. He must believe that he startled me to the point of swooning. If I had it in me to laugh, I would. But, I do not.   
  
"I never meant to cause you harm, but something I did must have affected you adversely," he continues, confused as to my silence. "Perhaps you did not understand my words when I spoke yesterday. I meant only to reassure you."   
  
It is true, I did not understand him then. His words were unimportant, only that he was speaking them. But, it is easy to understand now. I recognize his language. He is of the horse-lords of Rohan, speaking the language of his kin. In my fifteen years of isolation in Imladris, I learned much of the world. With little else to occupy my mind, I became adept in all language and history, though I would never speak. The reds and golds in my shirt and pants are instantly recognizable as the colors his country, now that I know his language.   
  
The realization that I am wearing his clothing is as shocking as that first touch. It is another connection; I have never before worn clothes that belonged to someone other than myself. I sigh, afraid and exhilarated at the same time. I am losing that invisible person I once called myself. A set of old, faded, used clothes has brought me back to reality.   
  
I come back to myself and realize that he is still staring at me intently, worry darkening the light blue of his eyes to a color close to that of the sky prior to a storm.   
  
After a few more minutes filled to bursting with the intense silence, he sighs and mutters, almost to himself, "You do not understand a word I am saying, do you?"   
  
I can lean no further forward, so I tuck my legs under me, sitting back on my ankles. As I hoped, he sees my movement and looks up. As soon as I catch his eyes, I nod encouragingly. Yes, I understand everything you are saying.   
  
He smiles at my reassurance and I catch myself almost smiling in return. I can not help it. The brightness of his smile is like the sun peeking out from the clouds. Still, I try my best to convey happiness strictly with my eyes. I want him to know that I have never felt this joyful in my life.   
  
"If you understand, then why do you not speak?" he asks, the smile gone from his face, replaced by confusion.   
  
At this, I falter, unsure of how to explain using only my eyes. It is impossible. How can I explain the curse of my name without speaking? It is a paradox; I am cursed not to speak and therefore can not explain my curse. It is the trap of my existence. How I wish he had not asked me that question. My joy lost, I lower my face in shame.   
  
Thankfully, he asks nothing more. There is, once again, only pregnant silence in the warm confines of the tent. Silence is my companion.   
  
I hear him stand, breaking my pained contemplations. When I look up at him, he is standing in the entrance to the tent, holding the flap open and gesturing toward the camp. Slowly, he extends his hand to me, to assisst me in standing, or so it seems.   
  
I hesitate, staring at his open palm. His hand is calloused from years of swords and horses, but I feel my fingers twitch, wanting to test his skin, to see if his hand could possibly be soft under the callouses. I admire his patience as I study his hand. His arm does not tire and he does not retract his offer of support. He waits.   
  
I take a deep breath. Am I ready to take this step? I am sure that if I instigate the contact, I will be giving away my old life.   
  
I expel the breath in a rush and place my hand in his.   



	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12   
  
  
As soon as her fingers wrapped around his, Éoden exhaled softly, the breath he'd been holding finally released. With a reassuring smile, he tightened his grip on her hand, her small one rough against his palm. This surprised him. So beautiful a creature should have soft hands, he reasoned. But, of course, she had been living in the wild. And who was he to complain? The Gods knew his hands were as calloused as any.   
  
With this grip established, he pulled her to her feet and smoothly tucked her hand under his arm. His other hand held open the tentflap for them as he led her out of what had been her sanctuary during the night. He watched her face in wonder as her eyes widened, taking in the sight of the camp in a rush.   
  
He wondered, momentarily, if she was frightened. But no, of course she was not. Her entire face was shining in delight, her lips parted in an astonished gasp. In vain, he searched for the source of her amazement, but saw only his men going about their usual duties. Tents which had been built the previous afternoon were swiftly disassembled, and all remaining supplies were packed into rucksacks and pouches. Nothing new to be seen here.   
  
But, to someone who had never before witnessed army life, this frenetic packing and preparing to leave would indeed be a sight.   
  
"Sir?" Again, Haled approached, his voice slightly uncertain at seeing the enigmatic woman.   
  
"Good morning, Haled!" Éoden said cheerfully. "Is there something I might help you with, my friend?"   
  
"Sir, I want only to ask permission to take down the lady's tent."   
  
"Of course Haled, of course! And see to it that this tent is always prepared for her."   
  
A brisk nod was the young soldier's reply before he turned and walked stiffly toward the tent.   
  
"Shall I show you the camp, my lady?" Éoden asked the woman holding his arm, but she merely stared at Haled's retreating back.   
  
"I will not lie to you," Éoden said softly to her after allowing her a moment of silence, "Haled is wary of you, as is most of the camp. They know nothing of you; where you came from, what your name is, why you were in the forest. In truth, I wonder these things myself."   
  
Her eyes left Haled to peer into Éoden's, and they were vaguely sad, even haunted. Something told him that she would not answer his unspoken questions, that she would not speak no matter how he tried to coax words from her lips.   
  
Still, she was attempting to speak to him, even if only through her eyes. Those luminous gray orbs captured him and refused to let go, pouring her emotions through them, into him until he felt saturated with this dull pain. It was like a memory of previous sadness.   
  
Her stare was paralyzing, but she was unwavering in it, until a playful breeze whipped the waist-length strands of her hair into her face, blocking her view. Annoyed, she swept the hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ears. Ears that were pointed, he noticed with a start.   
  
An Elf! That certainly changed things. This was no mere wandering girl, she was one of the Beautiful Ones, the Blessed of the Valar. No telling, now, how old she was or where she came from. The mysteries of the Elves were timeless. And lost. After the War of the Ring, the Elves had left Middle-Earth. Why was this woman left behind?   
  
Aware of his shocked expression, the cream of her skin turned a soft shade of embarassed pink. But, ever considerate, he chose not to ask her of her heritage. Instead, he pretended as though it was her odd state of dress which brought the sudden smile to his face.   
  
"The first thing we must do upon our return to Edoras is find you something more appropriate to wear, he said chuckling.   
  
His diversion from her embarassment proved successful. She took a step back, letting go of his arm and spread her arms wide, demonstrating the ridiculous size of the clothing. The wool shirt hung to her knees and the sleeves dangled far past her fingertips. The thick riding breeches, meant to be tight, sagged around her, forcing her to continually pull them up.   
  
"I am sorry, my lady," he laughed, "but I could not have you catching a cold in your own damp dress. In Edoras, we will have gowns made for you."   
  
He paused, suddenly, realizing that he had not asked the woman if she wished to accompany them back to the city. He had planned it without her acquiescence. He'd gone so far as to cut short their scouting party so as to spirit her to his beloved land. Surely King Éomer would be forgiving once he understood Éoden's reasoning.   
  
But all of this would be meaningless if she wanted only to return to the forest.   
  
"Lady, I must again beg your forgiveness," he said, tucking her arm under his again. " I have come near to planning a new life for you without ever asking if it was a life you wanted. Do you wish to join us? Would you like to become a part of the Rohirrim?"   
  
He knew she would not answer with speech, but the minutes stretched to the breaking point, and still she made no attempt to convey a response. Her eyes darted left and right, nervously, not settling on any one sight in the camp, including Éoden. In fact, her stare seemed to want to settle on anything but the patient man who steadily awaited her answer. The hand on his arm trembled noticeably, clenching and unclenching in the heavy red fabric of his shirt, but still she did not answer.   
  
Wanting to quell any fears she might have, he finally spoke, "You have nothing to fear in traveling with us, my lady. My men pose no danger to you, I promise that. Maybe you fear being unwelcome? But again, I assure you, we would be honored if you would join us. And once at Edoras, you will find that the king is as hospitable as any man." Slowly, he exhaled, realizing that he had been talking in a rush.   
  
"Forgive me for pressuring you, my lady. But, the idea of leaving you to these woods is unbearable. Please, accompany us back to Edoras."   
  
He made no move to press her further, confident that he'd said enough. If she was not assured now of her safety and welcome, there was little more he could do to convince her in coming.   
  
Slowly, her hand stopped trembling and her eyes at last steadied to his. They were still filled with uncertainty, moist with what seemed like unshed tears. Softly exhaling through her nose, she broke eye contact and opened her mouth as if to speak. But, just as he could feel the words building up from her chest, she clamped her lips closed, effectively dampening his excitement at hearing her voice.   
  
Instead, she reassuringly squeezed his arm and turned to nod in assent.   
  
Pleased immensely, he smiled a genuine smile of pure happiness.   
  
"The road back to Edoras will be long, my lady, but I will do my best to make it comfortable for you," he said, joy in his voice.   
  
Her only response was to expel her breath rapidly through her nose, an undignified snort.   
  
Chuckling softly, he said, "Forgive me. You need not be coddled. I know not how long you've been wandering these woods. Perhaps you have more endurance than some of my men."   
  
She nodded and then paused, taking a step back. Her eyes lit with merriment and she let go of his arm, turning a slow circle, with her head thrown back to the sky. The gentle breeze strengthened into a heavy wind, flinging her dark tresses upward. She made no move to smooth them, as he watched her take in the beauty of the day. Perhaps the idea of leaving the woods excited her? Perhaps she was bidding a joyous farewell to her home?   
  
Whatever the reason for the sudden display, Éoden rejoiced in it, happy to see the somber maiden shed her melancholy countenance for a new, contented one.   
  
Silently, he prayed that he could help her keep her newfound happiness, protect her from any pain. He prayed for the strength to help her. He'd promised her safety; there was no choice now but to do all he could to deliver on that promise.   
  
Sighing, he peered up at the sky, deciding the hour by the position of the sun. "We must away, lady. The day grows late and the camp is packed," he said, interrupting her reverie.   
  
Slowly, she lowered her face from the sky and turned to him, nodding. She took a step in his direction, stopped to yank on the oversized pants, and continued toward a now-laughing Éoden.   
  
Her eyes and her stance displayed readiness and a hopeful excitement. His only wish, as he led her toward his waiting soldiers, was that her journey would prove satisfactory to her hopes. He was taking her from the home she'd always known. What if Rohan proved to be a source of disquiet and upset?   
  
The soldiers awaiting their captain looked wary but accepting of the woman. Their trust in Éoden overshadowed any uneasiness they felt as their new guest, a guest who wore their uniform and walked among them back to the Golden Hall, back to their King, joined them.   
  
No time for suspicion and questions, though, for the road lay ahead, the journey awaited its beginning.   



	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13   
  
How different it is to view the forest through the eyes of one who is leaving it! If it were not for my expectation, this endless walking would grate on me. But, excitement outweighs the claustrophobia of my green-walled home, this verdant prison. I will at last escape my sanctuary, the forest which has so long trapped me.   
  
It is frightening, to leave what has been my home for a millennium. I fear that what I hope for, happiness among the Rohirrim, will come to naught and I will again face exile in the woods. This fear shows how tangible I have become. My shadow-self is rapidly disappearing, leaving flesh and bone and, though I fear to say it, a spirit. No more am I empty, for I have felt compassion and care from someone who knows nothing of me. Save, no, he knows of my heritage.   
  
Curse my pointed ears! If not for them, he would think me a simple wanderer, if a bit strange. Now, he realizes that I am alone, an outcast Elleth, who is cursed, never to speak.   
  
How hard it is to maintain silence when around him! He looses my tongue till I am barely able to keep words from spilling forth. If he only knew of my past, he would not try so hard to hear my voice. A child of a rape at the hands of one of Sauron's marauders, I am unwanted. To speak would be to reject the weight the Elves placed on me, and to reject that would be to cast away the only link I have to them. A hated link, yes, but it is a connection, nonetheless.   
  
In this state of contemplation, I plod along steadily with the soldiers who have become my companions. The one to my left is Thengel, named for the King who was father to King Theoden, and the one to the right is Éomen. I know all the soldiers now, as Éoden felt the need to introduce me to them all, believing that I should be made to feel welcome. Most of the men were courteous, if not openly curious. But some had eyes that wandered, lips that formed into predatory sneers, hands that clenched in tension as I met them. I will not become like my mother; I will not be a victim. In this camp, I am known to be protected. That is why Éoden has resumed his place at the front of the line, knowing that I am safe.   
  
It is our fifth day of walking, the fifth day of sleeping in a tent instead of under the stars, the fifth day of wearing Éoden's clothes, the fifth day of belonging somewhere.   
  
Despite my intentions of trying to keep distance from their reality, I realize that I am joyful to belong.   
  
Belonging means sitting around a campfire, whose boisterous flames fling orange light toward the stars, as if struggling to mirror the brilliance of their distant fire. It means sharing a bowl of hot stew with my companions, an exhausted, smelly group of men who willingly include me in their world. They are my teachers, opening my eyes to a world that would, to any other, seem commonplace. They taught me how to hastily erect a tent in the near dead of night and just as quickly break it down in the dark hours of morning. I would not be swayed from learning this, for I refuse to be a burden. And so, each day, I learn something new, like how to make a stew that requires little to prepare and yet still is filling and tasty. I clean, I cook, I learn. It is wonderful.   
  
But as much as I am taught, I am also a teacher. The grace that I inherited from the ancestors of which I am proud serves as a lesson to the clumsy, loud soldiers. Instead of crashing through heavy brush and branches, I gently move these aside and pass through, leaving all just as it was. They are ashamed to act awkward in the face of such poise, and so mirror my example. My knowledge of the forest is a lesson to them as well. Though they know the route, I know the path. Casually, I point out clearings for a perfect campsite, rivers and streams for freshwater, and tall trees with sturdy limbs for the lookout. They seem surprised at my knowledge, but the do not understand what it means to have the patience that comes with time.   
  
"My lady?" questions Thengel, his hand on my arm.   
  
I turn to him, wondering what is the matter. He knows I will not speak and so waits for no answer.   
  
"I called to you, but you did not respond. I meant only to tell you that we are stopping for the night."   
  
My eyes say a soft "thank you" for his gentle admonition and I walk toward Éoden who holds my gear in the rucksack on his back. Though I insisted, with as piercing a glare as I could manage, to carry the gear allotted me, he would not allow it. It makes me happy to see how much he wants to keep me comfortable and safe.   
  
When I reach him, he smiles and hands me the pack with my effects.   
  
"I trust you are not overly tired, lady. If you are, I can have Haled or Éomen pitch your tent," he says, concern written on his face.   
  
I shake my head in assurance that I am not tired and can take care of myself. With assured speed, I empty the pack and begin to assemble my tent, only to find a pair of hands helping me. He knows I do not need the help, but Éoden likes to feel needed. And I am not proud enough to dismiss him. He is not being patronizing; he is simply being kind.   
  
With my tent built, I crawl inside to lay out my bedroll and blanket. He holds the tentflap open for me as I crawl back out, my task completed. Smiling, he drops the heavy material and turns from me, toward a group of soldiers holding spears and arrows.   
  
"I will return shortly, lady. We must find something to eat. The rations grow smaller and we have many days, still, of walking." He turns back to me, a soft smile on his face, "Do not worry. This will not take long."   
  
I am not worried, but I do, very much, want to accompany them. The fruits the forest provides are well known to me, including those that must be hunted. I have no small amount of experience as a huntress, and know that I could easily help them.   
  
So, I reach out and grab his arm, shocked by the ease with which I do this. Five days of contact with people and already my hesitancy is gone.   
  
He, however, is amazed at my boldness. Somehow, he expects that I will remain the same as the woman he found in the clearing. He will be surprised by how adaptable I am.   
  
My eyes are the only part of me I can use to express myself. So, I struggle to tell him that I want to join the hunting party. I think he understands; he is adept at reading my cryptic stares. In any case, realization brightens in his face, followed by what I know is a negative answer forming.   
  
"No, my lady, you can not join us." I knew he would say that. "It could very well be dangerous."   
  
Now I am angry. His overprotectiveness is often endearing, but now it is unnecessary.   
  
He must see my eyes smoldering, because he quickly says, "Besides, you are poorly dressed for a hunting excursion. You would frighten away all the game with all that loose fabric."   
  
His reasoning is faulty, and I will prove it to him. I stride up to him and reach for his belt, snatching the short dagger that hangs there from its sheath. These clothes are mine now, and worn, so I feel no guilt as I pull the tunic over my head and cut into its sleeves. The day is chilly, and I shiver in the small, white undershirt I am wearing. But, I firmly grasp the hilt of the dagger and cut several inches from the shirt's sleeves. I take one of the strips of fabric I've cut off and hold it in my left hand. With my right, I pull my hair into my fist and then wrap the strip of fabric around it, tying my hair off securely.   
  
The tunic is still long, so I cut off three, long thin strips from its base and then slip it back on. The tunic still hangs to my knees, so I sit on the ground and slip the riding breeches off, discreetly. My legs are covered by the shirt, more out of respect for his modesty than mine. What do I care for modesty?   
  
Holding the riding breeches, I cut double slits into the waist, spacing them so that each pair is approximately four inches apart. I then cut several inches from their length and slip them back on. The thick strips of fabric from the base of my tunic still lay on the ground, so I pick them up and knot them together at one end. I then braid the strips together and knot them again at the loose end. With this done, I slip the braided fabric through the slits in the waist of the breeches and cinch it tight before tying it off.   
  
There, now I am no longer a hindrance because of my clothes. I look up into Éoden's face, a smile in my eyes.   
  
He is merely standing there, staring, his mouth wide open in shock. I reach up, and gently pat him on the shoulder, shaking him from his stupor.   
  
He coughs, and takes back the dagger I hold out to him, slipping it onto his belt and saying, "But, you have no knowledge of weapons," he mumbles, searching for a reason to leave me in the safety of the camp.   
  
I could almost scream in exasperation. Instead, I ball my fists at my sides and storm over to the hunting party. Impatiently, I snatch a spear from a sputtering Thengel's hands and stalk back over to Éoden.   
  
Calmly, I raise my arm to the level of my eyes, flip the spear over so that my knuckles face up, and bend my elbow. With a calculated deep breath, I run away from Éoden until I am more than one hundred paces from him, spin back around, and hurl the spear.   
  
I must give credit where credit is due; Éoden does not flinch as the spear buries itself in the ground directly in front of him. It is almost vertical, the heavy iron point stuck deep into the earth.   
  
Already, I am running back to him, a confidence in my gait. But, the look on his face is no less wary. One more demonstration is all I will give him. I snatch the bow from his hands and reach over him to pull an arrow from the quiver on his back. This, I have done only a few times before. My fifteen years in Imladris allowed for only a small amount of weapons training, and what little I had was self-taught. Still, I am confident in the inherent skill of the Elves.   
  
I pull the spear from the ground, then jab it back down again, so that it is perfectly vertical, and directly in front of him. I then run back to my starting point, notch the arrow into place, level the bow to my eyes, pull my arm back, and let the arrow fly.   
  
This time, Éoden is slightly less prepared. He jumps back with a cry of "Ai! Eru!" as the arrow buries itself in the wood of the spear. Had the spear not been there, the arrow would have lodged itself between his eyes.   
  
He needs no further convincing as I hand him back the bow and pull the arrow free from the spear.   
  
"I concede, lady. No further arguments will suffice. In any case, I fear that any argument I might make, you would casually disprove," he says, his hand coming up unconciously, to rub the bridge of his nose, where the arrow would have hit him.   
  
He is so easily fooled. I am no master in weaponry; most of the soldiers in the camp could best me in a fight. But, it is almost completely dark now. They will need my eyes so that might eat tonight.   
  
"We must prepare you," Éoden says, before walking toward his own tent.   
  
When he returns, he is carrying a heavy leather belt and dagger, a bow and quiver of arrows, and a spear. He hands me the spear and puts down the bow, holding out the belt. I raise my arms to the side so that can buckle it around me.   
  
He inhales sharply, perhaps expecting me to do it myself. Foolish men and their over-modesty! I give him a look which screams impatience over his foolishness, so he coughs and reaches around my back, our faces close together. He will not match my eyes as he pull the belt around me, buckling it so it lays low around my hips, the dagger pulling it down slightly on the left. His hands are shaking as he finishes cinching it tight enough so that it will not fall off during the expedition. Poor soldier. He has obviously spent little time around women. Still, his polite nervousness is endearing to one who has spent to long without touch.   
  
Done, he pulls back and hands me the quiver. This he will not assist me with, and understandable so. I lay the spear down at my feet and pull the thin leather straps over my right shoulder and the other around the left side of my chest, under my shoulder. I buckle these together in the center of my chest, and reach for the bow. Once in hand, I pick up the spear, which I know I will not use, for its heaviness is overkill.   
  
I nod, ready, and walk over to the restless men. I hand Thengel the spear Éoden gave me, to replace the one I took from him, and then keep walking. I am already far ahead of the rest of the men by the time Éoden catches up with me.   
  
"Were you not going to wait for us?" he asks, breathless from running to meet me.   
  
I stop, and turn to him, laying a hand on his shoulder, in less of a friendly gesture and more of a "wait-here" gesture.   
  
While he struggles for an excuse to stop me, I jump up onto the nearest low branch of a tree. From there, I climb higher, and higher, until the branches are thick and strong. I run lightly across one, until I am close enough to jump the next tree.   
  
I climb, and run, and jump, the ghostly moonlight painting the rough bark a delicate silver and casting an eerie glow on my skin. I feel at one with nature as the moon's luminence slides over my skin with the whispery feeling of a soft breath. For once, I do not feel entirely outcast, no longer an unnameable curse.   
  
How quickly this change has come upon me, I think, as I come to a stop on a high branch. Only five days ago, I was contemplating the end of my life. Now, now I finally feel alive!   
  
But, with this feeling comes a sense of guilt. For, no matter how alive I feel, I am still accursed. Should I be feeling so good and at peace when I was meant to live a life of utter solitude?   
  
Yes! I scream in my mind. With a shocked gasp, I realize how angry I am with my mother, who cursed me to embody a name which shadowed me. What right had she to put such blame on a blameless child? It is my turn to belong. I want to be happy!   
  
This epiphany is earth-shattering. For a millennium, I believed that I would never know peace. And though I am still unclean with the evil of Sauron, I no longer feel empty. I no longer feel incomplete.   
  
Still, I know I will not speak. This burden was placed on my by the Elves, not my mother. They want none to know of her shame, her pain. It is my charge to be silent, to protect her. But I know that I also do not want my story told. I want no one to know of my half-bred heritage. All my new companions need know is that I am Elf-kind.   
  
This Elven part of me is what rules now as I crouch on the moon-painted branch. This particular tree lies at the edge of a clearing that is well-known to me. In this clearing, many animals come to be watered and to rest. Even now, a strong buck drinks from the tiny, silvery creak which meanders through this small version of the picturesque spot in the woods which ended my solitary life.   
  
In absolute silence, I pull an arrow from the quiver and notch it into the bow. My fingers play with the arrow's feathers as I summon the courage to pray. I have never felt worthy of prayer to ones so above myself. But, I must ask their help and offer appreciation for their gifts. Perhaps, they will hear me.   
  
In thoughts, I pray, "Ai Nessa, wife of Tulkas, and sister of Oromë, forgive my taking of your cherished animals. Ai Oromë, the hunter, bless my bow and speed my arrows to their target."   
  
With this thought, I sigh, feeling instantly comforted. Not due to the blessings of the Valar as yet, but simply because I know they have heard me. How I know this, I am uncertain. But I know.   
  
So, with utter confidence, I pull back on the taut line of the bow and release the arrow, knowing it will fly true.   
  
And it does.   
  
The arrow is merciful and ends the magnificent beast's life quickly. I silently utter a "thank you" to the Valar, and drop to the ground. I then turn to run back the way I have come, needing to reach the hunters before some other animal steals my quarry.   
  
In only a few minutes of speeding past those trees which I climbed, I catch sight of a worry-stricken Éoden. He sees me and runs to meet me.   
  
"Where were you? Running off like that was foolish at best," he says, condescendingly.   
  
I ignore him and grab his hand, pulling him after me. Hurry! my mind screams, or you will lose what you worked so hard for. Hurry! Hurry!   
  
The moonlight wanes in the sky, but my natural luminescence brightens the path enough for Éoden and the rest to see. At last, we reach the clearing. Thanks be to the Valar! Nothing has stolen what I strived to catch.   
  
Sensing the need for swiftness, Éoden calls to Haled and Fengel to help him lift the massive deer. There is pride in my eyes as Éoden looks into them and calmly smiles.   
  
"Forgive me, lady," he says softly, "I will not underestimate you again."   
  
I nod, accepting the praise with no small amount of joy.   
  
In one day, I have convinced Éoden of my skill and convinced myself of my own worth.   
  
"Ai Elbereth, Gilthoniel," I pray silently, "Thank you for peace."   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
Hope you guys caught the symbolism of her killing the deer and wanting to get to it in time.   
  
Did I change her to quickly? Was her transition too abrupt? Honest comments.  



	15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14   
  
The heavy sounds of metal upon metal rang through the open air, echoing in the empty space of sky. The swift slashing noises were occasionally punctuated by a muffled grunt or groan of pain. But all else was quiet.   
  
The plains of Rohan were empty save for the small group of men who stood in a loose circle, their armor a dark stain on the unbroken green and brown of the grass. In the center of the circle were two figures, each holding a pair of daggers, slowly circling each other.   
  
It was Éoden who attacked first, swinging his right arm down at her legs while the left came up at her throat. She ducked the left nimbly and blocked the attack to her legs with the blade in her left hand, spinning in a half-circle so her back was to him.   
  
He clucked his tongue softly, knowing how open to attack she'd just made herself. So, to show her how vulnerable she was, he brought his left arm up, meaning to wrap it around her chest, the dagger against her throat. But, just as his arm closed around her, she dropped to the ground, swung out with her right leg and kicked his legs out from under him. On his back, he stared up at her as he jumped up and placed one knee on his chest, her dagger close to his throat.   
  
"Good, very good," he said, his voice strained with exertion and the pressure of her knee on his chest. "I yield, my lady," he continued, almost whining, but still she did not move, the setting sun bringing a sparkle to her already-laughing eyes. "Please let me up," he near-begged, but she was too happy in her position of power.   
  
"Fair enough," he sighed, "But I did ask you nicely."   
  
With a twist of his upper body, he threw himself to the side, spilling her onto the ground, the dagger pulled from her hand with a steady, sharp pressure to her wrist. Now, their positions were reversed. Éoden smiled down at her, his hands holding her arms to the dirt. Not wanting to crush her, he knelt on the ground behind her head and stared down at her eyes.   
  
The laughter had not left those luminous orbs. Indeed, it seemed to increase until Éoden had no choice but to laugh heartily at this training session gone awry. With laughter still flowing from him, Éoden stood and extended his hand to the woman who still lay, prone, on the ground. Graciously, she took it and stood, brushing the dirt from her already-filthy clothing. Strands of midnight black hair had slipped from the strip of fabric which held them back, framing her face as she looked down at her dusty-self.   
  
Éoden could only watch in dismay as the wind played with her loose hair, his fingers itching at his sides, struggling to suppress the urge to sweep those errant strands back, behind her ears. Violently, he shook his head in an attempt to clear it of such thoughts. True, she was beautiful but would not be with him, them he corrected himself, much longer. And what did he really know about her? Close to nothing. Even her name was unknown to him, and here he was, imagining the softness of her hair under his hands. Foolish was what these thoughts were, he thought bitterly, foolish.   
  
Foolish, but normal, he thought again, reasoning within himself. Yes, there was nothing wrong with appreciating beauty, as long as he kept a level-head about it. Upon their arrival at Meduseld, she would be left in capable hands, and his mind could again be clear.   
  
A frustrated sigh captured his attention as she dropped her hands in defeat, realizing that her clothes would not come clean no matter how much she brushed at them. Éoden could only force mirth into his voice as he said, "Now you know what it means to be a soldier, lady. Dirt and filth become a part of our lives. But, do not worry. Meduseld is a much cleaner place than these plains." He gestured to the wide open space which had begun to go dark with the setting of the sun, and took a deep breath, inhaling the clean scent of damp earth and open sky.   
  
When he turned back to her, her eyes no longer met his for they too had moved to sweep the surrounding landscape. As if mocking him, she inhaled deeply, as he had. But, instead of turning to face him, she sighed, almost sorrowfully. Horrified, he watched as tears began to fall from her eyes, illuminated by the last rays of sunshine. Hands shaking, he reached forward and turned her face toward him, worry in his eyes.   
  
But the tears were not of pain or sadness, he realized as he at last caught her gaze. She was joyful in her tears, though still unsmiling. If only Éoden could see her smile. If only he could make her smile.   
  
"Sir?"   
  
Thengel's voice was an unexpected break in the silence and Éoden jumped, pulling his hand back from the lady's face. Embarassed, she hurriedly wiped away the tears that had begun to dry on her cheeks.   
  
"Yes, Thengel?"   
  
"Sir, you haven't set up night watches yet and I was wondering if you would......." his voice trailed off.   
  
"Yes, Thengel. I will see to it immediately. Escort the lady to her tent, please," he answered tiredly, and walked away as Thengel took the lady's arm in his and led her away.   
  
His own tent had long since been built, and he walked inside, sitting down with paper, ink, and a quill pen. Hastily,he wrote down the order of sentries, marking down the duration of their watch beside their respective names. This done, he exited the tent and handed the paper to a waiting guard with instructions to circulate it among the men.   
  
The sky had long since grown dark, but torches had been lit and a great fire blazed in the center of the camp. Around it sat his men, hungrily taking in the night's rations. Among them was the lady, quiet as always, hands clasped around a mug of what was probably ale. In that moon-glowing darkness, her skin gave off its own gentle radiance, making the men around her look positively dull. With a heavy-hearted sigh, Éoden realized he had no stomach for food or association that night. He turned back to his tent to seek a much-needed rest.   
  
He threw his armor and weapons to the floor, knowing that such lack of etiquette and esteem for his gear would have gotten him a sound tongue-lashing had he still been in training. But for once, he cared not for such trivialities. The furs of his bed were much too inviting and accomodating for him to spend time worrying about anything else save their softness.   
  
But, even as he pulled the heavy blanket up across his chest, he knew that he would only chase sleep that night, and never attain it. His thoughts raced with images of a pair of dancing gray eyes and a smileless, yet still radiant, face.   
  
"Éoden, you are a fool," he whispered to himself, pressing his fists into his eyes.   
  
Three weeks, three weeks was all the time that lady had accompanied them. Two weeks ago, they had left the forest, her home.   
  
In the dark of his tent, Éoden smiled, remembering her reaction to leaving the woods.   
  
It had been midday, the sun beating down, unobscured by clouds. For a few moments, she'd paused under the trees, her face uncertain, but Éoden had laid a gentle hand on her elbow and nodded reassuringly. She'd taken a deep cleansing breath, and stepped into that soul-searching light. Her gasp was audible as the hot sunlight bathed her face, making her squint uncomfortably in the sudden illumination.   
  
But, after she'd adjusted, she'd tipped her face up toward the sky and taken deep breaths, almost gulps, of the sweet, open air. SIlently, for she did all things silently, she raised her arms high as if in supplication and simply stood that way, unaware of the dozens of eyes on her.   
  
Every man in the camp who could see her had turned to stare at the living statue the lady had created. Her pale skin shone in the brilliant afternoon, her entire body seeming to revel in that warm glow.   
  
How long she'd stood that way, Éoden could not remember, but the image of her joyful thanks to the skies haunted him for hours afterward.   
  
That first ecstatic outpouring soon gave way to quiet trepidation. As the heavy lush green of the forest became empty space, the lady grew jittery, easily frightened. Though there was no doubt in Éoden's mind that she was happy to be free, he caught her looking back often in the direction from which they'd come, searching for a reassuring glimpse of her woodland home.   
  
This pained him greatly, this unvoiced sadness, so he strived to be a source of strength and, at times, a distraction.   
  
As in earlier that very morning. Éoden reflected as he lay on his makeshift bed, on the events of that day. It had started simply enough, with the breaking of camp and hours of walking. But as late afternoon had approached and the camp was built, Éoden had found the lady standing next to him, her countenance forlorn. He'd racked his brain for a suitable distraction, his fingers playing nervously at his sides. It was then that they'd encountered his sword belt and he'd chanced upon his answer.   
  
"My lady," he'd said quietly, "Would you care for a little training session while we have the time?"   
  
She'd been instantly enthusiastic, pulling the pair of daggers he'd given her from her belt. She looked at them almost nervously; she was adept at archery and the art of spear-throwing, but had little practice in sword-play. But her nervousness gave way to exuberance as Éoden proved to her that he would be careful and yet still try to challenge her.   
  
And the rest was history, Éoden thought ruefully as he lay in the dark.   
  
Exasperated, he tossed and turned on the thick furs, willing himself to fall asleep. It was all to no avail, though, as the hours passed and sleep eluded him.   
  
Éoden was on the point of getting up and pacing the short distance from one side of the tent to the other when a sound at the entrance to his tent grabbed his attention. Slowly and soundlessly, he reached for his sword as the tent flap was pulled open.   
  
He'd just brought the sword to bear when the unknown visitor entered the tent.   
  
He could only sigh in relief and happiness when the shadowed entity proved to have the distinct shape of a woman. And there was only one person in the camp who could possibly satisfy that requirement.   
  
The soft whisper of the fabric of the shift she rested in was the only indication of her gliding movement. He watched in wonderment as she knelt down beside him, looking into his eyes. Somehow, he knew that she'd come to him to help him fall asleep. The idea seemed impossible, for how could she have possibly known that he'd been chasing sleep for hours?   
  
He knew he would find no answer from her, so lay still, asking no questions as she took his hand in both of hers, and laid their hands in her lap. She looked down at him, deep into his eyes, and nodded, as if ordering him to fall asleep.   
  
She need not have ordered him, for already his eyes felt heavy and the warm blackness of sleep seemed terribly inviting. Her presence was as a soothing balm and all too soon he felt sleep beckon to him.   
  
It was as if only minutes later he woke to the bright light of morning streaking into his tent. He was not surprised to find that the lady had gone. Smiling to himself, he dressed and replaced the armor he'd so casually tossed aside the night before. With that done, he packed up his sleeping gear and assorted other items, exiting the tent with these in his arms.   
  
A sea of ready faces awaited him which he quickly searched, wanting to see one face in particular. Her's was not to be found at first glance, though, so he sighed and began disassembling his tent. His practiced hands made short work of it, and soon he was ready to depart, all his things packed and placed on his back. In obvious discomfort, he shifted, wishing for the thousandth time that they'd been allowed horses. No matter, for soon they would reach Edoras.   
  
Probably today, he thought, again readjusting the heavy pack.   
  
"Today we will make haste," Éoden shouted to his men, "And if luck is with us, we will reach Edoras before nightfall."   
  
A hearty cheer sounded from the men, filling Éoden with a sense of content. Yes, they were all long overdue for a rest. The lady, especially.   
  
The day was barely begun and already his thoughts were with her. She was in good hands, of that he was certain. He'd made sure to surround her with trustworthy men, men who would be blinded to her beauty by their loyalty to their captain.   
  
So, when hours passed without sight of her, Éoden was not worried. But, as they sky began to darken, his thoughts again searched for her. The smell of damp earth drifted to his nose on a thick, moist breeze as fat droplets of rain began to pour from the darkened heavens.   
  
"Éomen," he said, turning to the soldier next to him, "Lead them on."   
  
Éomen nodded in assurance as Éoden turned to run toward the center of the line. The lady nearly always walked at the center of the line.   
  
But, when he found her, he realized his concern was pointless. Her face was shining, even though her heavy clothes were sodden and her thick hair was plastered to her face with the rain. Her eyes were dancing with amusement, if not necessarily happiness, and her hands reached out to catch the elusive drops.   
  
He could only smile at her slightly bemused playfulness.   
  
"I came to see if you were alright, my lady, but my fears were unfounded, it seems," he said, wiping errant raindrops from his eyes.   
  
The look in her eyes made him wince. She hated being coddled, he knew that. But he cared only for her comfort and well-being. This, he hoped, she knew, for often she seemed almost pleased at his attention. Now, though…..   
  
"Forgive me. I do not mean to patronize you," he said, genuinely apologetic. "This reminds me. Thank you for your assistance last night."   
  
She laid her hand on his arm and nodded gently.   
  
"I am sorry if I deprived you of your sleep," he continued, but stopped as she shook her head swiftly. "But surely you need sleep," he said, after a pause, baffled as to her response. Again, she shook her head.   
  
He stopped to think about this until realization dawned on him. "Ah! It is your Elven heritage!" he said, and again stopped as her eyes dropped from his.   
  
Curses! he mentally shouted at himself. 'Why did I overstep the bounds?!' he thought.   
  
He was spared having to fumble for an apology as a cry sounded throughout the line of "Edoras!"   
  
'The Golden Hall' he thought, the name ringing in his head.   
  
"My lady," he said, turning to the excited woman beside him, "Soon you will at last be treated as you deserve, and sleep in a real bed. I must admit that I myself am looking forward to that. But I must leave you and take my place at the front." He turned from her, to run forward, but stopped to examine her face for any signs of her recent embarrassment. There were none, so he smiled and then ran to join Éomen.   
  
"Meduseld," he whispered to himself.   
  
The lady would meet the King inside and finally be treated like the lady she really was. Éoden could only hope she would be happy there, even when he left her side.   
  
The thought of leaving her plagued him, even as he ascended the steps of the Golden Hall, hours later. The lady had long since left their group, escorted by servants who clucked their tongues over her bedraggled appearance. They'd appeared to take her away as soon as they'd entered the city's limits. Even then, Éoden missed her.   
  
'Yes, the lady will be fine without me,' he thought as he reached the open doorway of the Hall, 'But I will not fare well without her.'   
  
The heavy wind gusted about him as he entered the hall, peering into the dark room. The throne of the King was directly in front of him, the King's wife resplendent beside him. But his eyes dismissed both of them at the sight of his Lady standing next to the King.   
  
A part of him knew that he would never see such incredible beauty again. 

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As always, please review. I'd like to know what you think. I'm trying to prolong any romance, so it doesn't seem rushed.

Thank you for the wonderful reviews. I hope to see new reviews from old reviewers. : )


	16. Chapter 15

I like this chapter better than the last one. It was much easier for me to write, but much longer as well. It's over thirty pages in my notebook. At the rate I'm going, I'm gonna need to buy a new notebook.

Chapter 15

Edoras approaches. From here, it looks like a march of beetles across a mountain, but as it comes closer, the shapes of thatched-roof buildings and dark, wind-blown houses become steadily clearer. I think of Edoras as a hulking giant, lumbering toward me. But it is I who goes to it. To my new life.

I miss the forest, as one would miss the familiarity of a scar which has faded with time. But I do not fear never seeing it again. It is my past, my old life, and I eagerly await my new start.

From the hills of Edoras, still far away, comes a pair of riders and one riderless horse, dutifully following the others. I know the men do not yet see them, for my eyes are keen to such detail. But as they near, the men around me begin to smile, perhaps hoping that they are messengers from the King, sent to greet us. No, they are not messengers, they are servants, and have come for me, in response to the message Éoden sent carried by his fastest messenger, as soon as we entered the city's limits.

To the chagrin of the men, I am greeted by the servants who are aghast at my rumpled and dirty clothing. They try to hide their upset, but are poor at it, which amuses me to no end. They lead me to the riderless horse which I mount and sit comfortably upon, though it is the first time I have ever sat astride such an animal. I wave a quick goodbye to the men, knowing I will see them in a few hours, and turn my horse toward Edoras. The servants ride tranquilly, but I want none of this. I want to whisper "noro lim" to the horse, knowing that those words will compel him forward. But, I can not, for even though speaking to an animal is different than speaking to a person, I am not yet ready to take this step. Instead, I gently nudge the horse's flanks with the heels of my boots, urging him on. I do not need to kick him; He is well trained.

The servants shout their disapproval as I let my horse loose across the plains, my hair whipping free of its ties and flowing behind me in the wind. I rejoice in the heavy breeze, which smells of freedom and sings empty spaces. It envelopes me and holds me, even as I tear through it, toward the gates of Edoras. These loom over me, daring me to enter the heart of Rohan. I am forced to stop; Their challenge sways me. I will wait for the welcome of the servants, who have long since been left behind.

I do not mind waiting for them to approach, for the gates and the city and the horse under me all capture my interest.

The gates are heavy iron and wind-weathered wood, darkened by rain and the task of keeping Edoras safe from attack. Intricate carvings crawl over their surface, flecked with gold and rust-red pigments, long since worn off by the ever present winds. From the watchtowers fly green and gold banners, a white horse rearing on the fabric. They snap crisply in the same wind which batters me as I sit calmly on my mount.

The city beyond is startlingly open, as if it is nonchalantly placed on the hill, as a decoration, the abandoned playthings of a child giant. Winding stone paths decorate the hill, weaving their way through it on serpentine routes, situated between dark houses, nestled into the soft depressions on the hill. My notion of the city as a march of beetles again strikes me as appropriate, for the houses perch on the hill in stark contrast to the grass and seem tiny in the expanse of the plains. All, that is, save for the Golden Hall.

Meduseld is like the throne of the king, his waiting courtiers, the houses, groveling before him on their knees. It shines amongst the homes, brilliant with color unfaded with time. It is polished stone and bright wood. It is resplendent, effulgent. It is my journey's end.

My horse snorts impatiently and tosses its mane, chewing uncomfortably on the bit. I lean forward and stroke his proud neck, then quickly unbuckle the ornate bridle which tortures him. I slip it over his ears and off his muzzle, stroking him as I do so. Eagerly he relinquishes the bit, whinnying softly with delight. He is a beautiful animal, and it pleases me that he is pleased.

The sun shines heavily down on him, its bright rays making his chestnut-colored flanks glisten like gold. His mane and tail are black, lustrous and dark like my own locks. It gives me joy to share this likeness with the horse.

I wish I knew his name. How hard it is to know someone without knowing their name. I love this horse already, his speed, his gentleness, his grace, his beauty. But I can not know him for I do not know his name. It is a simple concept, this knowledge through namesake, but I can not ask anyone for this tiny bit of information. It is depressing, and dampens my peace as effectively as a spray of water on a newly lit flame.

I have no time to dwell on this moment of sadness as the sound of pounding hooves rapidly approaches. I wince, but am inwardly amused, at the scolding looks on the servants' faces. This look escalates as they see the bridle in my hand and not on the horse. I allow them to pass ahead of me on their own horses and follow into the city.

I hear soft, hushed voices as I am noticed. I try to sit proudly, and be calm, but I am excited and want to see everything. I turn in the saddle, peering at anything and everything, only to realize that the soft voices I heard are accompanied by inquisitive, curious eyes. I hear the word "Elf" whispered more than once, and it gives me such a sense of shame that I nod my head forward so that my hair covers the subtle pointing tips of my ears. I meet their stares, then, and try to think of these people as my future friends. But no matter how hard I try, I can not imagine them understanding me as the men of Éoden's scouting party understand me. All I can do is be fearless, and that has never been hard for me.

Indeed, I feel no fear as I leave the horse in the hands of a stable boy, who smiles at him and then at me, reaching for the bridle in my hand. His eyes are wide and innocent, his hands dirty, fingernails filled with grime. He is altogether unkempt and smells of horses, but I like his genuine, innocent smile. And when he pats the muzzle of the horse, and calls him Sila, I want to cry. The horse's name is a simple Elvish word, meaning shines. Yes, he shines, and I am happy to have known such a proud animal.

The servants usher me onto the steps up to Meduseld and walk quickly up them. But I want to savor these first few steps. At the crest of the stairs, I look around, evaluating the view. Thick, round columns extend out to a stone foundationg, which juts out to form platforms of cobbled rock. Green and gold ribboned banners wave in the almost-tempestuous wind, held high on what look like old spears, once used in combat. I know, already, that I will spend much time on these platforms.

A hand on my arm rips from this evaluation, and pulls me into the Hall. The golden throne at the head of the room is empty, and yet still glows, the only bright light in the room. It is set on a raised dais of stone, high carved arches inlaid with gold above it. Behind the throne are banners in red and blue, the same rearing white horse decorating them. These banners hang also from the arches leading to the throne, formed by massive columns, intricately carved and topped by sculpted horse heads. The floor is a pattern of hollow circles and diamonds, in blue and red, also stone, interrupted by an open firepit. Bands of gold carvings cover everything, intermittently, and, aside from the throne, they are the only things which sparkle. The hall is altogether dark and worn, as if with sorrow and old mistakes.

I take this all in with the swiftness of a breath, and continue on, almost running to catch up with the servants. They lead me under one of the arches, into a long hallway and through a doorway, from which steam leaks out in flowing, wispy puffs. The air around it is hot, and as I step into the room, I am assaulted by a wave of humidity. In the center of the room is a large, marble bath, filled to the brim with steaming water and frothy bubbles. Hands grab my soiled clothing from all sides and soon I am all but tossed into the scalding, sweet-smelling water. I surface with a sputter, wiping soap from my face, but strong hands push my head back under, and begin to lather my hair. The whole situation is utterly ridiculous.

I am at last allowed to take a breath and peer at the woman who is so intent at making me clean. I want to tell her taht only my clothing is dirty, that the Elven part of me keeps the filth from my skin. Still, the other part of me, the human part, is eternally unclean.

"My name is Fréoda," she says, a determined smile breaking out on her face, as she lifts my arm from the water and scrubs it.

Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, thick, dark forearms protruding from them. Her face is soft and round, wisps of hair sticking to her forehead from under a kerchief she has tied about it to hold it back. Her face speaks of hard work and a productive life.

"You're just about the same size as the Lady Éowyn," she continues. "She's gone now, married to Faramir of Gondor, but some of her dresses still hang in her old rooms." She speaks of Éowyn with fondness, a gentle nostalgic lilt in her voice. "You'll be meeting her brother, the King, as soon as I've got you washed and dressed. He's a good man, King Éomer, and his wife is as sweet and kind as any lady you'll ever meet." She pauses to splash a bucket of clean water, with no soap, over my head. "Alright," she leans back and puts her hands on her hips, "You're clean, let's get you dressed."

She pulls a thick robe from a basket of clean clothes at her side and holds it open for me. She is motherly and kind, and I feel secure in her presence as I step from the bath and put my arms into the sleeves of the robe and wrap it tight around me. I tower over her diminuitive, stout frame, but she exudes strength. She is stronger than I can ever hope to be. True, I have no fear, but my emotions are as fragile as a newly-spun spiderweb.

She leads me though a curved doorway at the back of the room and says, "This will be your room."

My eyes scan it slowly. At its center is a large bed set on a carpet of furs. The walls are free of any tapestry or decoration, a fault I hope to amend. The room lacks personality and is dark. I hope I can improve it.

Fréoda leads me to a low stool and asks me to sit. She picks up a bottle of sweet-smelling oil from a table next to her, and rubs a small amount into her hands before stepping behind me. From here, she picks up the wet, tangled mass of my hair and begins to smooth the oil into it. When she is done, it shines like it is lit from within, but is still tangled. This she fixes by picking up a comb carved with the design of horses and pulls it through my hair until it is free of knots. The silence must be uncomfortable for her, because she begins to speak.

"Éoden said you would not speak. 'Watch her eyes' he said. 'They speak volumes.' He knows you well, eh?" she asks, but of course she knows I will not answer. "Of course he does. How long were you with them? Five weeks?" I nod an affirmative, and she continues, "Five weeks is plenty long enough to learn a person. He said to take care of you for him."

This does not surprise me. He is unceasingly protective. Still, it gives me a secret thrill to be so obviously wanted. It is the first time I have ever felt such care.

Fréoda is softly chuckling, and I do not know why.

"He was right about your eyes. You were thinking of him, weren't you?" she says, merriment tainting her words.

Why should I lie to her? I nod.

"Don't worry, you'll see him soon. He's gone to his home, as have the other soldiers. But they'll be back in an hour or two to meet the King. You'll be ready by then."

This said, she pulls a small section of hair away from the left side of my head, at my forehead. She ties a ribbon the color of moonlight to a few strands of hair and then braids it in with the rest. She does the same to a section on the right side of my head. Once done, she loops the two braids together to form a spiral down from the back of my head to my waist. The ribbons she tied in are longer than my hair, so she uses the loose ends to tie the spiral together and lets the rest hang below it. She lifts a small box from the table and selects a handful of tiny, tear-drop shaped beads from it. They have little hooks on their ends, and these she uses to attack them to the ribbon in the braids. She attaches them only to the point where the braids meet, so that they dangle around my head.

After this, she steps away from me and pulls a gown from the bed. She must have laid it out before, but strangely enough, I did not notice it. She helps me out of the robe, into a shift, and then into the dress. Undoubtedly, it is the most beautiful gown I have ever worn.

It is a soft gray, the color of my eyes. The sleeves are right to the elbow, then split open so that the length of them falls almost to the floor, but leaves my forearm uncovered. Just above my elbow, a braided cord loops around my upper arm and falls with the sleeves. It is the same color as the ribbons in my hair. The collar is square cut, dipping low, and leaving a good portion of my shoulders bare. Starting at the swell of my chest and ending at my waist is a criss-crossing of wide ribbons the same color as the cording on my arms. They form an almost-corset across my torso, and hug me perfectly. The gown is beautiful, and I feel beautiful in it.

"Almost ready," Fréoda says, hands on her hips.

She picks up the box that held the beads which decorate my hair and rummages through it. Smiling, she pulls a necklace from it and places it around my neck. It is a simple, silver chain upon which hangs a five-pointed silver star. The center of the star is an opal, shining as if it is filled with hundreds of fragments of sparkling ribbons. Four points of the star are decorated with tiny, dangling, tear drop-shaped opals, which rest in the hollow of my throat.

"Now, you're ready," she says, a smile of satisfaction and accomplishment breaking out across her face.

I try to tell her how grateful I am, how happy, and she seems to understand, for she smiles and nods. She extends an arm ahead of her, indicating taht I should walk forward, and then takes her place beside me as I follow her direction.

Down a long hallway, we walk, an odd pair if ever there was one. I am not nervous, only inquisitive as to the King and Queen, as to my place in the Kingdom of Rohan. Perhaps the King will tell me that I am unwanted, and will send me back to the forest. This idea does not frighten me. It is not as though this has never happened before. At least then it would be something I am used to. Still, the thought of never seeing faces which have become familiar, again, makes me somewhat sad. I have always lived with sadness, though, and do not fear its presence.

The end of the hallway is bright and I can see the columns of the great hall as we near it. We pass under the same banners that flew over me not long ago, but this time we turn towards the throne, not away from it. Though I did not notice it before, there is a second throne, a smaller one, to the King's left, and upon it sits his wife, the Queen.

I approach calmly and sink to my knees before the King, my head bowed. The soft silks of the gown pool around me and my hands rest upon them. If I were truly of the Elven world, I would not stoop so low. I would extend one arm out from my chest in a gesture of respect. But I am not. I am of a world all my own.

"My lady, you need not kneel in my presence," the King says, so I stand and look into his eyes.

His face is stern, and yet kind, wizened by lines etched in by time. His hair is blonde, like Éoden's, only it is marked by strands of silvery-gray. He is simply dressed, not at all kingly, save for the golden crown set upon his brow. He looks uncomfortable, as if he would rather be on horseback, fighting for his kingdom.

"so, you are the lady, Éoden is so enamored with,"he says, a smile in his voice. It is not a question and I blush at its obvious intimacy. I have never before thought of Éoden as anything more than a protector. Apparently, I was misguided.

"He will be here soon," he continues, "So I will tell you my decision as to your stay here when he arrives. Until then, let me introduce you to my wife, the Lady Lothiriel." He puts a gentle hand over hers and smiles at her. The love between them is obvious and refreshing.

I turn toward her and curtsy slowly and then meet her eyes. They are a light brown, a strange combination with her light blonde hair, but still beautiful. Indeed, her entire person seems to glow with inner radiance. In examining her gown, I realize why; She is pregnant.

She smiles widely at me, and nods at my display of respect.

"I am pleased to meet you," she says, and her voice is musical. "Éoden has chosen well, it seems." She is candid and frank in her examination of me, and again I blush, realizing more and more of my importance to my guardian, Éoden.

Thankfully, it seems they both know that I will not speak to answer questions, and simply sit in silence. It is a comfortable silence, broken only by the gravelly voice of a herald who says that Éoden and his men arrive. The King, Éomer, gestures towards me to stand at his side.

"He will want to see you, dresses as you are," he says, his voice stern, but almost-mischievous.

I nod and walk forward to stand at his right, the silk of my gown whispering against my skin like a soft, cool breeze. I clasp my hands in front of me just as Éoden strides into the room.

His face is so welcome, I almost smile, but he has not yet seen me. He looks first at the King, then to the Queen, but his eyes race to mine when he sees me standing so near. His clear blue eyes widen and his mouth almost drops open. It is terribly flattering to be so admired, but he looks well himself. His blonde hair has been pulled back at the crown of his head, and shines with having been newly washed. He is wearing a clean, new tunic, which fits him well and shows no tears or use. Backlit by the setting sun, he looks very handsome, and I am shocked to admit it.

He remembers himself and falls to one knee before the King, the men behind me doing the same. I recognize Haled, Thengel, and Éomen, and watch with pleasure as their eyes seek mine and smile. At least, the latter two smile. Haled's ugly face never has a smile for me. He is constantly brooding, his thick brows pulled down low over his eyes in a scowl. Though I do not fear him, being in his presence is enough to make me the closest to nervous I have ever been.

I ignore him, as the King addresses Éoden, rising from his throne to open his arms in a brotherly embrace. The two smile, clapping each other on the back as only close friends do.

"So, my friend," the King says, resuming his seat on the throne, "What brings you back so early? As if I could not guess." He makes a point of glancing in my direction.

"Your assumption is correct, my Lord. I had no wish to drag the lady about the forest with us. Forgive me if I assumed incorrectly that you would not mind my cutting the scouting party short."

"You know my mind, Éoden, of that I have no doubt. You chose wisely bringing the lady here." He stops and brings one hand to his chin, stroking the short hairs there.

In this short silence, Éoden's eyes seek mine, but for once they are serious, even sad.

"Forgive me, my Lord, but what is to be done with the lady?" Éoden asks, his eyes not leaving mine until the last word.

"Well, I have given it much thought, my friend, and the Queen and I have decided that the lady is welcome to live here in Rohan, here in Meduseld, in fact, if she wishes." At this he turns to me, as does Éoden, and his eyes are expectant. How can I refuse? I nod. I try to ignore Éoden's sigh of satisfaction.

"Alright, that is settled then. The lady may have my sister's old rooms. And in celebration of our new guest, who I hope will become a permanent resident, the Queen and I shall have a feast and perhaps dancing. You," he gestures to Éoden and his men, "are all invited. Go home now, and rest. You men deserve a rest. Tomorrow night, I shall try to make up to you the months of walking."

At this, he stands and crosses to Éoden's side, hugs him again, and sends the men on their way. I watch as they, one by one, turn their backs to me and leave. It is Éoden who turns last, his eyes fixed upon me. He nods slowly, without smiling, and at last pivots and walks away.

When he is out of sigh, I feel a hand on my arm and look into the Queen's radiant face. She is smiling, a mischievous smile of satisfaction. "Perhaps he merely thought the dress was beautiful?" she says, and laughs a clear, ringing laugh like crystal bells.

The King joins her and seems to sense my embarassment, for he says, "My lady," addressing me, not the Queen, "it occurs to me that you must have some sort of occupation if you are to stay here in Meduseld. I do not mean that I will only allow you to stay if you serve here, but you will need something to keep you busy. It is easy to become bored inside the walls of this Hall."

I nod my agreement and follow him as he leads me out of the great hall and down a long hallway. "Here," he says, pushing open a heavy door which creaks as if angry when he does so.

He motions for me to step inside and I do, my eyes widening.

It is a library, filled with scrolls and dusty parchment. The air is thick with the musty smell of old leather and paper, but I do not notice.

The King follows me and walks to a far corner of the room. He gestures to a pair of bookshelves and many wooden boxes, piled high with documents. As I peer closely at them, I notice that they are not dusty and smell of fallen leaves, of autumn. He pulls a scroll from one of the boxes and unrolls it, to reveal flowing script in runes that are familiar to me. I gasp. They are written in Elvish.

"By your expression, my lady, I must assume that this language is familiar to you," he says softly, handing the scroll to me.

I hold it gently in my hands, running my fingers over the silver letters. I nod emphatically. Yes, I understand these.

"Then," he sighs, "this is to be your assignment. These documents were found in an Elven city, long abandoned. I am ashamed to admit that our rough Rohirric eyes can not decipher their meaning. Will you translate them for us? Can you write in Cirth?" he asks.

I nod an affirmative to both questions, my eyes still tracing lovingly over the language I have not seen in so long.

He smiles with understanding, and pats my shoulder, leaving me to my contemplation. The sound of the door closing tells me he's left, and I sink to a chair, gratefully. I lower the scroll and scan the boxes and shelves of their history, realizing that this assignment could take me years. But, I do not care.

I stand from the chair and put the scroll down on it. There is a small table in the center of the room which I pull over into my corner and then lay the scroll on its scratched surface. There is ink, a quill pen, and blank sheets of parchment stacked on a shelf in another corner which I pile on my table before sitting down. I pick up the pen and dip it in the inkwell and scratch the first words of this scroll onto the parchment, in the harsh lines of Cirth runes and the language of Rohan. It is a scroll I know I will love, for its first words I have read many times before. "Of the Valar."

'Yes, thanks to the Valar for allowing me such happiness,' I pray silently, leaning back in my chair and sighing.

I stay like this for a moment, or an eternity, and then open my eyes and pick up the pen. I will write for hours upon hours. I will write a history that I can never hope to accept as my own, but whose beauty will give me peace.

Satisfactory? Tell me. I live for reviews.


	17. Chapter 16

Okay kids, here it is, chapter 16. Sorry it took so long. Expect maybe four or five more chapters before the end.   
  
Chapter 16   
  
"Éoden, you can stand in front of that mirror for hours, but nothing is going to change!"   
  
Thengel was tired of waiting for his friend, who'd been primping in front of the mirror for what seemed like years. The feast at the Golden Hall would begin soon, and still Éoden fretted over his appearance.   
  
"I bet even your lady friend does not waste this much time getting ready," Thengel grumbled, slumping forward on the firm cushions of the couch in Éoden's small home.''   
  
At his friend's comment, Éoden visibly started, but tried to pretend as if the statement had no effect on him. But it was too late. Thengel had noticed his reaction.   
  
"Ah, so now I understand. Worried about what the lady will think of you, eh?" Thengel said, standing to lurk behind Éoden. "Don't worry darling, you look beautiful," he said, his voice rising mockingly to sound feminine as he shook his friend's shoulders good-naturedly.   
  
"Besides, no matter how hard you try, you won't look prettier than she does. Gods, she is beautiful."   
  
Ever observant, Thengel caught the jealousy as it flashed through Éoden's eyes. Still, he dismissed it with a laugh.   
  
"Suppose I shall have to be more careful about talking about her in your presence. I didn't realize the depth of your feelings," he said, the merriment bleeding from his voice as Éoden sighed.   
  
But, when Éoden stayed silent, Thengel could only answer with his own exasperated sigh as the threw himself back onto the couch. He watched the shadows march across the floor. They shifted to obscure a new place as the sun sank into the horizon, and still Éoden was silent. The room darkened until the reflection in the mirror was no longer distinguishable from the surrounding gloom.   
  
Sitting in the dark, Thengel grew more and more frustrated until finally he stood, lit a torch on the wall, and near shouted, "Talk to me, Éoden!"   
  
In response, Éoden turned to face his friend, anxiety creasing his face around his eyes and mouth.   
  
"I do not even know who she is, Thengel. She is silent, nameless, without laughter, and yet she possesses my mind."   
  
Thengel nodded sagely, and thought on this for a moment. Finally he asked, "Do you love her?"   
  
Éoden paused, thinking, and sat down heavily on his couch, next to Thengel. "No," he said softly, "I do not. But I could, Thengel. I could, and it would not take much to move me to such an emotion. If I but knew her name..." His voice drifted into silence, the words spinning up to join the twisting smoke of the sputtering torch.   
  
"You'll not learn it here, sitting on this couch," Thengel said merrily. "Besides, all this laying about will wrinkle your dress, sweeting!"   
  
With this last playful jab directed at his friend, Thengel jumped up from the couch. "Come on!" he said, walking toward the doorway, "The night has only just begun and there are festivities waiting at the Golden Hall!"   
  
The sounds of music and laughter greeted the two men as they ascended the wide stone steps to the Hall. The giant columns glittered as if with golden dust under the pale light of the moon and the tremulous illumination of the torches set to guide the guests into the feast. Under this torchlight, Éoden paused, taking a deep, steadying breath. He could hear Thengel's deep-throated laugh behind him, and lurched forward as he slapped Éoden good-naturedly in the back. At this none-so-gentle provocation, Éoden took the remaining few steps into the Hall, blinking at the sudden wash of light and color.   
  
In the wide, open space, couples danced to a slow, lilting melody, their colorfully dressed bodies forming an interweaving pattern like so many vibrantly-toned ribbons. Amongst the sea of blurred faces, Éoden recognized a few, but skirted the group to walk toward the throne.   
  
Upon the throne sat the King, dressed in royal finery, and looking uncomfortable in it. He was meant for warfare, Éoden mused, a private smile decorating his face. Beside the King sat his wife, radiant in the torchlight. He held one of her hands, delicately, as if she could be easily broken. But, her face glowed with health and she sat straight, a fur-trimmed robe, the color of the sky at dawn, draped about her shoulders. Though this would be her first child, she handled the pregnancy with determined strength.   
  
Below the King, at his left, sat the lady, the silk of her gown spilling upon the stone steps on which she reposed. In vain, he tried to ignore her as he bowed to the King and Queen.   
  
"You are late, my lord Éoden," Lothiriel said, as he fell to one knee before her. She leaned forward, her face next to his, and whispered, "But you look quite handsome. For the lady, hmm?" She inclined her head toward the lady, a sparkle in her eyes.   
  
To deny it would be foolish, but to admit it would be equally so.   
  
He leaned back and smiled, "How could I stand before so beautiful a queen in anything less than my best?"   
  
The honest smile she returned this comment with proved that she was little fooled by his evasion, but flattery kept her quiet.   
  
"There is food and drink if you desire it, my friend," Éomer said, gesturing with an open palm toward heavily-laden tables.   
  
"No thank you, my lord," Éoden replied, standing. "I am not yet hungry."   
  
The casual banter ceased and Éoden turned toward the lady before again speaking to the King. Or rather, he opened his mouth to speak but was met by a knowing look and an open hand.   
  
"Say no more, my friend. You wish to spend your time elsewhere. This I understand."   
  
"Thank you, my Lord," Éoden said, then descended the few stairs to greet the lady.   
  
No sooner had he bowed to her than a new melody began, lively, and yet haunting. Words seemed unnecessary as the music expressed anything he needed to say. Silently, he extended one hand, wordlessly asking her to dance. She hesitated for only a moment before gently placing her hand in his. Her eyes widened and met his, perhaps surprised with her own boldness. But as he helped her to her feet, she calmed and the look in her eyes softened from surprise to contentment.   
  
The soft material of her gown rustled as it settled around her. Éoden took a step back, still holding her hand, and took a long moment to admire her.   
  
She was dressed in lilac-colored silk which fell off her shoulders to rest on the pearly skin of her upper arms. Wide, silver straps held up the draping folds of the gown's front, contrasting with the dark gray of her eyes and the black of her hair. These long strands were loosely pulled back and held in place with a clasp of two silver leaves whose stems met and looped together, holding thin silvery chains which fell in an interlocking pattern down the back of her head. She sparkled as she moved, her entire body shimmering. The purple silk glowed in the torchlight, and the net of pearly beads that wrapped around her hips shattered the light into effulgent beauty.   
  
"You look positively lovely, my lady," Éoden said softly, sincerity shining in his voice.   
  
A flattered blush bloomed on her cheeks and she nodded in thanks as he led her toward the open dance floor. A great many of the couples had left it, to partake in the feast, leaving only a few to share in the beautiful song.   
  
Slowly, he pulled her closer, until they were merely a hair's width apart, and placed his free hand on her lower back. Without hesitation, she placed her left hand on his right shoulder and waited for him to take a step. And as he did so, Éoden found himself entranced. The lady moved as gracefully and silently as a shadow, as smoothly as water. She followed his steps confidently, even as they became more complicated.   
  
The music reached a swelling pitch, and Éoden responded by turning the lady in a slow spin, held out at arm's length. Time seemed to slow as she turned under his hand. Her beauty was unmatched by any in the room, and did not go unnoticed. Indeed, almost every male eye turned to catch her as she moved. Even the King watched as Éoden pulled her back into his arms, just in time for the music to slow and the last notes, fade.   
  
The silence did not last long as a new, slower melody began. As if moving merely on instinct, Éoden dropped the lady's hand to place both of his on her waist. No longer nervous, no longer hesitant, she wrapped both her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder.   
  
They danced almost without moving, the music a soft whisper in the background. For the thousandth time, Éoden wished he knew the woman in his arms. The intelligence in her eyes, the depth and mystery, captivated him, but these were little more than vague ideas. He wanted to know details, history, truth. He wanted to learn the reason for the sadness in her eyes and thus be able to forever banish it. He felt himself her protector, the one who would always care for her. Someday, she would share her past with him. Of this, he was certain.   
  
Taking one of her hands from about his neck, he stepped in closer and gently bent her backward from the waist, responding to the low tones of the music. She leaned into his arm, confident of its strength and let her head fall back, lifting it as he pulled her up to him again, just as the melody ended. Her eyes were amused, perhaps because of having noticed his pattern of a last flourish as the music ended, saving the dramatic motions for the finale.   
  
But, just as suddenly as the amusement had lit her eyes, it was replaced by an indecision he could not understand, nor explain. Her eyes darted away from his, scanning the room in quick movements before at last settling back on his. The anxiety left them and was replaced by assurance, leaving him still confused.   
  
The muscles of her cheek twitched slightly, quivering as if she were about to cry. But, when Éoden raised a hand to her cheek, concerned, a soft smile broke out on her face.   
  
A smile! As if unsure how to form her lips to such a display of joy, her smile spread slowly, until it lit her face with unbridled happiness.   
  
His hand still on her cheek, Éoden stood awestruck. Never before had pleasure proven itself in any way save through her eyes. Yet now, as he held her in his arms, she smiled, a true, genuine smile.   
  
The smile faltered when still he did not respond, but he quickly moved to amend this. His hand drifted down her cheek, toward her mouth, and gently touched her lips, wonderment in the featherlight caress. His eyes seemed fixed on his thumb, which moved slowly across her bottom lip, before they jumped up to search the gray depths of her stare. Wanting to soothe the uncertainty there, wanting to tell her of his wonderment, he threw his arms about her waist and lifted her into the air, a rich laugh pouring from him.   
  
Still holding her aloft, he spun on the dance floor laughing, even more pleased as the smile which had shown so briefly, broke out anew on her face. Ever brighter, she smiled down at him, her hands on his shoulders, supporting her.   
  
"She smiles!" he said, speaking only to her as he twirled her about.   
  
The soldiers who knew the lady as smileless turned as they heard Éoden's jubilant cry. Amazed laughter, hearty cheering, and wondered clapping filled the hall as they beheld the ever-grim lady's face shining with a perfect smile. Still clapping, they watched as Éoden gently put her down and touched her cheek softly. Only when they say that Éoden was speaking softly to her did they cease their noise-making and turn back to quiet conversation.   
  
"I do not know what has brought on this sudden display," he whispered, his fingers gently stroking her skin, "But I am not embarrassed to say that it pleases me to no end. Would that I could keep a smile ever on your face," he sighed, pulling his hand away.   
  
In response, she frowned as if worried, and took his hands in hers, squeezing them assuringly. She let go one of his hands to touch his cheek, as softly as the brush of a moth's wing. Holding his eyes within her own, she nodded almost imperceptibly, but the meaning still shone clearly.   
  
Again smiling, she leaned in and kissed him on his clean-shaven cheek and then pulled back, turning a slow circle to walk away from him and the party, seeking the solace of her rooms.   
  
Entranced and mute, he raised a hand as if to touch the mark of her lips, only to find that his hand had stopped midway to his cheek.   
  
The kiss had been a friendly one, one that signified nothing more than gratitude.   
  
His hand still hovering in the air, air that had suddenly grown heavier, Éoden stood in the center of the dance floor, listening as the music slowly died.

Thanks for the reviews. Keep 'em comin'!!! :) How is the pacing? Rushed? Tell me.


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Sighing, I drop the quill on the deeply-furrowed table, careful to keep the inked end away from my work. A thick stack of formerly-blank parchment rests directly in front of me, the silver elvish ones next to them. On the floor, next to my feet, is a large box filled with the documents I have already translated. After two months of such work, I am proud to have done so much. The document I have just finished is a story which occurred after my being exiled. It has taken me three weeks, almost without stopping, to translate it.

It is entitled "Of the Destruction of the One Ring" and deals with a young Hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins. His struggle was so profound, so immense, that, upon its completion, he was granted a place aboard a ship bound for Valinor. I am both proud of, and jealous of, this Half-ling, for he was offered that which I was scorned. But my burdens are nothing as compared to what he carried. Still, he had the support of those who loved him.

And now, in this land of horses, I too have found ones who care for me. There is the King, who frequently checks on me, wanting to make sure of my comfort. There is the Queen, at whose side I often sit, sewing baby's clothes. There is Fréoda, whose matronly love fills my heart with joy, for I have never known the love of a mother. There are the soldiers, who I see very little, but whose friendship is a boon to me. And there is Éoden, whose attention to me I now realize is not that of a friend.

He visits me often, always with a smile perched merrily on his face. And I have learned to greet him in much the same way. My face has become comfortable with a smile, though it spent over a millennia without one. I am glad in my decision to let go of this piece of my dark past. And it pleases me to see Éoden's reaction each time I smile.

He wants more, though, and I know it. His eyes tell me how much he wishes he knew me, my name and my past. But I am not ready to share this, not even with him.

He is gone now, and I think that I miss him, but I am too busy to pay attention to my own emotions. In any case, I will see him when he returns from training new éored. And today, I have too much to do to focus on anything but the tasks at hand.

I rise from my low chair and smooth my skirt with my hands. The sun has just begun to show its face through a small, circular window, high on the wall, signifying that soon the Hall will begin to stir. Wanting to avoid questioning eyes, I hurry from the library. I run toward my room, needing to move after spending countless hours hunched over scrolls and lettered parchment. I am a flurry of skirts and long hair as I race down the hallway, stopping only when I reach my rooms. I push open the heavy door and smile at the pleasant scent that greets me.

Since moving into this room, I have greatly changed its appearance. The carpet of mismatched furs is gone, leaving empty floor. But the colors in the floor are beautiful, so I spent hours on my hands and knees next to Fréoda, making it gleam. Now, the blues and reds shine like a happy greeting. The furred coverlet on the huge bed I also replaced. Now, it is a light green woolen spread, trimmed in gold and white. A low table sits directly next to the bed, and is never without a bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers. The walls are no longer bare, for Fréoda made me a gift of tapestries and banners. The tapestry shows lush green fields and rolling hills, backlit by a setting sun. Silhouetted against the last rays of light is a single, rearing white horse, who she tells me is the legendary Shadowfax. I wish I could have seen this horse.

Horse! How could I have forgotten?! I am meant to go to the stables at dawn to help Elresed, the stable boy, with the animals.

Hastily, I pull my gown over my head and slip on a worn green shirt and brown sleeveless dress over it. I tie off my hair at the nape of my neck with a strip of leather and thrust my feet into a pair of boots before running out of my door, past servants, through the Great Hall, down the steps, and into the stable.

Elresed greets me but does not turn as he pitches straw into stalls.

"Would you get me two pails of water from the well?" he yells, still working.

I nod, though he does not see, and take the pails to be filled. Elresed saves the easy work for me, though I volunteered to help him once a week. He sees me as a lady, for there is no reason for him not to. I live in the Golden Hall, attended by servants, friend to the King and Queen. But if he knew my past, he would know that I am anything but a "lady".

I carry the filled buckets back to Elresed and join him in mucking out the stalls.

"I can do this, my lady. Go and tend to Sila. He needs a good brushing."

I take a brush and comb from a shelf and enter Sila's stall. I smile at his beauty. Being with him always makes me happy. I lead him out of the stall and into the center aisle of the stable where I take the brush to his back. In long, smooth strokes, I brush a shine into his coat. I follow the patterns of the soft hairs on his sides and legs. When I am done, he gleams like chestnut fire. I put aside the brush and begin to pull the comb through his mane and tail. I carefully pull the knots free and when I am done, he whinnies gratefully, bobbing his head up and down. I stroke his neck, and rest my face against it, but am soon startled by Elresed's voice.

"He is a beautiful horse, and he likes you, eh?"

I turn to him with a smile, but that is all I offer.

"He is yours my lady, a gift from the King."

I can scarcely believe this. It is a shock that makes me ecstatically happy. Elresed only laughs at my expression and asks, "Would you like to ride him now, my lady?"

I shake my head. No, I will ride him later.

"Alright. Well, I do not need your help anymore today. Till next we meet," he says, with a bow that is more of a nod.

I give my own nod and smile and leave the stable. Tonight, I am going to Fréoda's home for dinner. Until then, I will translate.

The sun is setting as I choose an outfit to wear to Fréoda's home. My closet is full of clothes made for me, that I have helped make. Because I plan to ride Sila to her house, I pull on a pair of burgundy riding breeches and a split-skirt riding coat that is the deep green of crushed grass. I pull the laces at the sides of the coat tight and put a few quick braids in my hair. I grab my riding boots, pull them on over my breeches, and leave my room, softly closing the door behind me.

I follow the road to the stable that I used earlier and enter it quietly. The sun has long-since fallen, and the gloom is thick as I open the hinged gate to Sila's stall. He whinnies happily as I run my hands over his back and lead him out of the stall. I do not bother to tack him up as I grab a handful of his thick mane and place my hand on his back, just before his hindquarters. In one fluid motion, I am astride his back, which brings a smile to my face for I love nothing more than to ride him. I nudge his flanks gently with my heels and he walks forward, out of the stable.

We keep this pace until we are well away form the stable and then I let him loose. We take the longest route to Fréoda's home, whipping about Edoras at a furious pace. The moon is just beginning to rise, and we are painted in silver when at last we arrive at our destination.

Fréoda's house is small, but proud. Its black stone and black, wind-worn, wood have stood the test of time, and its thatched roof is made stately by a pair of carved horse head which meet to form an arch. I lead Sila into a small corral next to her house and pat his side happily. He nuzzles the side of my head before trotting merrily towards a water trough. I know he'll be safe here as I walk toward the doorway.

I knock gently, then wait, running my fingers over the cirth runes on the dorr which says "Welcome". Thi is so typically Fréoda, for I know her to be hospitable to all.

She opens the door, a smile already on her face and says, "Hello, my dear!" She wraps me in a warm, motherly embrace and leads me inside. She treats me like her child, which is pleasing, if a little foolish. I am infinitely her senior. But, in many ways, I suppose I am childlike, lost, confused, learning happiness and peace. She is justified in wanting to treat me so, for I need a teacher to help me.

The interior of her house is sparse, but well-kept and comfortable. In the center of her kitchen is a long table with four chairs topped with more carved horse heads. Upon the table are two pewter bowls and two pewter mugs, for it is only Fréoda and I who will be dining tonight. Her husband died at Helm's Deep and her two sons have long since joined the ranks of the éored.

"I made stew, I hope that's alright," she says, stirring a pot hung inside the stone fireplace.

I nod quickly and smile to thank her for her hospitality.

"Please, sit," she says, as she gathers up the bowls and mugs to fill and then replace on the table.

She sits across from me, and smiles, but says nothing. She stares at me, as if trying to decipher the meaning of my soul through the expression on my face. I match her gaze until at last she says, "When will this stop, my dear?"

I am startled, and do not know what she means, so I wait for her to continue.

She pauses for a long moment, then says, "You must move on from whatever pain it is that you dwell on. It is time to be happy. He wants to make you happy, dear, so let him."

She does not say who "he" is, but she does not need to. Éoden, of course.

"He would love you, if you would only allow it."

I look away from her, unable to stand her soul-searching gaze any longer. Love? I do not know love. Never, in my long years of life, have I felt such an emotion towards another being, nor been the recipient of it.

"Let him know who you are. Tell him."

I shake my head, for I am not yet ready to speak to him, but still I do not look at her. What she says is the truth. I am the only one preventing my happiness.

"If you will not speak, write! You spend hours in that library, writing away. Could you not find a single moment to scribble down your name?"

I do not reply in any way, and she is exasperated. The room is silent, so silent that the crackling of the fire becomes a cacophony of noise. Again, Fréoda sighs, but this time, tiredly.

"I do not mean to embarrass you. Let us forget this. The stew is growing cold."

We eat in silence and, once done, move on to more pleasant conversation. But I can not stop thinking of the truth of her words.

Hours later, I leave her home, hugging her tightly to say goodbye and thank you. I smile, as genuinely as I can, though my mind is buzzing with her words. She does not say anything, does not need to, as I walk away, toward Sila. He is waiting for me, his head peeking over the fence of the corral. I open the gate and walks out to my side where I quickly jump onto his back. I am not ready to go back to the Hall yet, so I lead him toward the gates of Edoras. I peer up into the sky as we fly through the city and momentarily lose my view as we speed through the gates.

Once again in the open plains, I feel free but also lost. Here in this vast emptiness, Fréoda's words surround me like a separate entity. I swing my right leg over Sila's back and jump to the ground. I lay down in the short, stiff grass and contemplate the sky.

It is an angry gray-green and looks like the underside of clay which has been punched repeatedly with fisted hands. The air has grown so heavy I feel as though I could reach forward and tear out great handfuls of it, holding it viscous and dripping on my palms. I could rip at it until the sky unleashed its rage and was at last peaceful.

But, I do nothing of the sort. I lay with my hands by my sides and think about the future. This is something I've never before done. My life has always been focused on living through a single moment, realizing that the past and the future will be much the same. Now, I see a progression of newfound freedoms, chances to live. When Éoden returns, can I free a new part of myself? Can I tell him who I am?

The sky gives me no answer as I repeat the question over and over, in my head. To tell him my name would be to tell him my torment, for my pain is the result of the title forced upon me. But, how can Éoden care for me without knowing the truth? He must decide his feelings for me after learning that I am the Daughter of Blood.

Yes, he must know my name, or I will never know peace, or, though I fear to even think it, love.

But, I will not speak. This is a step I can not yet take. It is through a pen that I will introduce myself.

Now that the decision is made, I am possessed by it. My hands itch at my sides and my legs twitch, willing me to rise. I think of how close Éoden's camp must be, toward the east. Sila gallops as if to keep pace with the wind; We could be there in less than an hour.

But no sooner have I settled myself on his back than a great sense of dread fills me. My head near swims with it. I must return to Edoras, and fast. If I do not, something terrible will happen. Of this, I am certain.

I urge Sila onward, bending myself forward over his neck, and move my arms in time with his running, my hands fisted in his mane. No matter how swiftly he runs, it is not fast enough, for doom races us to the gates of Edoras. I can feel it running beside us, taunting me, promising some fatal happening that I can not prevent.

The sky splits apart above me, its anger finally released in the form of long, jagged bolts of lightning. Sila whinnies in terror as the ground shakes with the deep blasts of thunder. But he is true to his course, enduring his fear as Edoras appears, faint in the distance.

Faster! Faster!, I urge him on, but still, Edoras seems so far away. Perhaps it is merely my imagination for in only a few moments we are racing through the gates. A few moments more and we are at the steps of Meduseld. I leap from Sila's back and tie him under the cover of a stone archway.

I run up the steps with the swiftness of the pure side of my blood and dash through the entryway into the Great Hall.

Fréoda is waiting there for me, wringing her hands in worry. Indeed, her broad face, usually calm, is tight with stress.

"Where have you been?!" she asks, running toward me. "No matter," she says upon reaching me, "for you're here now." She takes me by the arm and leads me down a hallway.

I know where we are going; I have known since I walked inside. There is a buzzing of fear and excitement in the air, the kind of excitement which comes with a birth. Indeed, as we near the Queen's chambers I can hear a low, animal moaning which is undoubtedly Lothiriel herself.

"She's been like this for hours," Fréoda says, her voice strained. "I am beginning to worry for her health."

I stop just before the door to the Queen's rooms and turn to place a comforting hand on Fréoda's shoulder. She nods and smiles and opens the door.

I all but run inside, but stop when I see the King pacing back and forth. He glances occasionally at the door behind which is his wife. He is afraid, so I go to him, and grab his shoulder to stop his fretful pacing. He looks into my eyes, hopefully seeing confidence in them, and says nothing. I can feel him relax at my presence, for he hopes in the healing powers of the Elves. I pray that I do not let him down.

I release his shoulder and go into the adjoining room.

Lothiriel has never looked more fragile than she does now. Her blonde hair is sticky with sweat and her cool brown eyes are listless. She is at a momentary rest, her chest heaving as she tries to regain her breath.

I cross to her side and take one of her hands. She looks up at me, a smile on her face, but it is gone almost immediately as her body curls around the pain of birthing. She arches forward, teeth bared and eyes shut tightly. Her body tenses against the pain, but I place my hand on her belly and will my strength into her.

My fingers ache from her squeezing the, but I welcome the pain. Indeed, I wish I could take the pain from her, help her to bear it.

She exhales in a rush and falls back on her pillow, tears streaming down her face. Her spirit is weakening and she is discouraged. 'Only a little more', I long to tell her, but do not.

"Once more, my lady, and you'll be able to hold your child in your arms," says a maid who crouches at the foot of the bed, assisting in the delivering.

Lothiriel sobs at my side, for she does not believe that she has the strength for even one more attempt, but I hold her hand tight and pray to Fanuilos to give her that strength which she lacks.

I know my prayer is answered for she surges forward with a cry. She gives all her remaining power to this attempt, which lasts only a few moments before she again collapses.

"A boy!" the maid cries joyfully.

Foolish girl! She is wrong to rejoice so soon. There is no sound issuing from her arms. Something is wrong.

I drop Lothiriel's hand and run to the foot of the bed where the maid stands with the child. I glare at her for being such a simple-minded person and take the baby from her arms, carefully.

It is as I feared. The birth was as hard on him as it was on his mother. His skin is a pale blue and he is limp in my arms. He is breathing, but barely. He will die if I do not act quickly.

I know the words that will bring him back from his journey toward the white shores, that will save his life. I learned them countless years ago, but have never had occasion to use them. In the past, I would have let the child die rather than breaking my promise of silence. But the terror in Lothiriel's eyes, the hope in Éomer's as I passed him, is something I hold very close. They are important to my life now. I must either betray them or betray a promise held sacred for more than an age.

The decision is already made in my heart, for I can already feel the words in my throat. But can I take this step? Can I break my ties to the Elves?

"Hin mornië mí, kal utuve! Utuveyes." I command the child to hear me, and obey, with the power of words. I can feel tears pour down my cheeks as I speak, for I have never before heard my own voice. It is melodic and smooth, deep and flowing. It is mine.

The baby's tin body moves in my arms and his skin begins to lose its blue to a normal pink color. I forget on, full of hope.

"Huinello kele! Khile beth nîn. Aiye! Cui!" I sing the last two words as loudly as I dare and the baby joins me with a full-throated cry.

He shrieks and yells in my arms with the tinny voice of an infant. I hold him close and sob joyfully, for I have given up my past to this new life. He is my new beginning, for his birth marks the start of a new era in my life.

__

I walk to Lothiriel's side and pass the child into her waiting arms. She stares at me in wonder and awe before turning her eyes to her son. She smiles at him and then turns to her maid to tell her to admit her husband. He runs into the room before the maid even nears the door and goes to his wife's side.

With a tender expression on his stern face, he runs a hand over the baby's head and then leans down to gently kiss his wife. It is a touching and beautiful moment, one in which I have no part, so I turn to leave.

Éomer's strong voice stops me before I can leave.

"Will you now tell us your name, lady, that we may offer our thanks to the woman who saved our son's life."

I open my mouth to speak it, but the sound sticks in my throat. I can not profane this joyous occasion with the filth of my title. I close my mouth hurriedly and shake my head no, but smile to reassure them.

"If you will not honor us with your name, we will give honor to you with the name of our son," he says, and pauses to look at Lothiriel who smiles and nods in agreement. "He will be called Elfwine, for it is through friendship with an Elf that he has found the light."

My head swims with a thousand separate thoughts as I lay in the dark of my room. My song to Elfwine plays repeatedly across my lips, though I am silent, until it has drowned out the buzzing in my mind. I am unsure of how I feel now that my silence is broken. Will I be expected to speak? Will I be forced to tell my tale to those who have endured my silence for so long?

I do not like being indebted to them, owing them something. But they have cared for me and will expect something in return, though they will never ask it outright.

And what of Éoden? When he returns he will undoubtedly heard of this revelation. He, above anyone else, will want my voice. Now I am unsure if I want to give it to him.

Tired of such thoughts, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I run my hands through my hair and cradle the sides of my head in them. Sighing, I stand and walk to the door, pulling it open.

The hallway is dark, but my eyes are strong and I know my way. Down the hallway to my left, up a short flight of stairs, and through the third door on the right lies the room I seek. The library door is unlocked and ready for me so I move silently into the room, toward my corner.

I sit at the table which has become my home and pull a book at random from the shelf of untranslated documents. I set it down in front of me and pull a pen and inkwell towards me along with a stack of blank parchment. I set everything down and open the book, for I always read the document before translating it.

Now, as I turn the pages and skim through the script, I feel my hands begin to shake and my eyes water. I slam the book closed and drop it onto the table, but even then, the title stares up at me almost hatefully. I push against the table, trying to get away, but when I try to stand, my knees buckle. The floor rushes up at me, but I do not attempt to catch my fall or stand after I have hit the ground.

In a sobbing heap, I lay on the stone floor and curse my weakness. I am my own anathema. Five words have abolished all my supposed strength, for that book holds a story I have spent my whole life trying to forget. "Of Alquawen and Of Seregiel."

End Chapter 17. What did you think?!?!?!?!?!

Side note, Elfwine literally means Elf friend in Rohirric. And I didn't make that up. Elfwine was the son of Éomer and Lothiriel. However, it is highly unlikely that he got his name from an Elf chick who saved his life when he was born. But hey, it worked for the story.


End file.
